We’ll Always Have Parrots

Chapter 25

As I passed through the lobby, I saw people clustered around the closed door of the hotel restaurant. Shouldn’t it be open for lunch by now?

I pushed closer, and saw a sign taped to the door: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Below that, in bright red letters, someone had added, “BY ORDER OF THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT.”

The fans were already responding to the health department’s action, in a variety of ways. Several rude remarks in felt-tip pen already graced the margins of the sign. A few people were organizing parrot-and monkey-catching squads. A few more were organizing fast-food runs. And most were milling around, grumbling.

“I was getting to like the animals,” I heard one fan say.

“Yeah, only I was thinking we should have more of a variety next year,” another replied.

“And bigger ones,” a third suggested. A murmur of general approval followed. I made another entry to my growing mental list of reasons to avoid next year’s Porfiria convention. Assuming there even was a next year’s convention.

I headed for the dealers’ room. Not that I expected much to happen there. The only vendor doing much business was the enterprising owner of the Undiscovered Treasures booth, who’d bought a case of cheap, brightly colored umbrellas and was selling them as “parrot-sols.”

I’d begun to regret taking the booth. Of course, when I’d signed up for it, I hadn’t expected having a murder to distract me and, more important, my potential customers. Maybe business would pick up later in the day, but for the moment, when the convention-goers weren’t in panels, they were out in the lobby and the halls, watching the reporters outside, trading rumors, and getting underfoot whenever the police tried to do anything. Judging by the crowds that followed him, Detective Foley was fast becoming one of the most popular guests at the convention, though he wasn’t going to stay popular if he kept refusing to autograph programs.

I found Harry from Blazing Sabers loitering near the booth, talking to Steele.

“Chris said to remind you that we’re doing another demonstration tonight,” Harry said. “Doesn’t look like we’ll get much rehearsal time, so we’ll just do the same bit as yesterday.”

“Do they really think anyone wants to see it twice?”

“Why not?” he said, shrugging. “Twice is nothing; this crowd’ll watch the same Porfiria episode twenty times and come back for more.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” I said. “Hey, sign my nephew’s program, will you?”

“Sure,” he said, taking the pen I handed him and flipping neatly to the center spread. “I love these things; only time I ever get asked for my autograph. Of course, from what I hear, fans have started asking the police for their autographs now, so I guess I shouldn’t get too stuck up.”

With that, he turned to stroll off.

“Harry,” I called. “Are you busy?”

“Nah,” he said. “Chris and I were going to work out some new routines, but he’s still off driving the porcelain bus.”

“He’s that hung over?” I said. “Please tell me not to feel guilty that I didn’t confiscate his beer last night.”

“He’s a big boy,” Harry said. “Besides, it wasn’t the beers, numerous though they were; it was the tequila shooters later on.”

“Later on? How late did the bar stay open?”

“Only till one, but the parties went on long after that,” Harry said. “In fact, I think there’s still one going on down in 232 if you get bored.”

“I’ll pass,” I said. “Look, do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure,” he said.

I grabbed a Magic Marker and a sheet of paper, scrawled a sign that read “Get the edge in your next argument…swords, daggers, and other implements of destruction—booth 13,” and pinned it to the back of Harry’s costume.

“And while you’re wandering around, how about carrying this?” I suggested, handing him a knife. An unsharpened one, of course, and safely peace-bonded so the security guards wouldn’t confiscate it.

He wandered off, chuckling. I stood behind the counter.

Steele had tipped his folding chair back against the mound of empty boxes stored behind our booth, pulled his battered period hat over his eyes, and appeared to be dozing.

“Think that’ll do any good?” he asked, from under the brim.

“Who knows?” I said. “Worth trying. Business is a little slow.”

“Slow? Try immobile,” he said, his voice still emerging slightly muffled from under the hat.

I envied his calm. I kept tapping my feet and drumming my fingers on the table. I decided not to look at the clock until I was sure fifteen minutes had passed.

Oops. Try four minutes.

Not that I was waiting for anything in particular. But it annoyed me, being stuck at the booth with nothing to do.

In fact, it was driving me crazy. I envied Steele his apparent tranquility.

And I couldn’t resist interrupting it.

“So where did you learn blacksmithing, anyway?” I asked.

“In a commune,” Steele said.

“A real commune? What was it like?”

“Not my scene,” he said, shrugging. “Stuck around till I got the basics of blacksmithing down, then I split.”

I waited for more. Anyone who asked me how I got into blacksmithing risked a half hour monologue.

“So you liked blacksmithing?” I asked, finally.

“Seemed useful,” he said. “Better than all the odd jobs I’d been knocking about with up till then.”

Obviously Steele and I were not kindred spirits. I went back to drumming my fingers.

Luckily, before my nervous percussion drove Steele crazy, a visitor finally stopped by the booth. Not a customer, of course—Steele disappeared back under his hat. But then, I needed to talk to this visitor.

“Feeling any better, Chris?” I asked. He seemed to be holding his head a little carefully.

“I see you’ve been talking to Harry,” he said.

“Look, Chris, I’m trying to get a program signed for my nephew—the one who had such a bad experience with the QB yesterday.”

“Sure,” he said, reaching for the program and flipping it open, almost by instinct. He’d obviously signed a few of them this weekend. He had his pen poised above the space before he noticed it was already signed.

“Hey, one per customer,” he said, laughing and handing it back to me. “I already did this one. In fact, I think I remember your nephew. Tow-headed kid with a mean little dog, right?”

“That’s him,” I said. “Chris—tactless question of the century, I know, but I’ll ask it anyway—any chance of getting Andrea to sign? Did she even come?”

He shook his head.

“Back in California,” he said. “I found out that much from the police. They, uh, checked up on her. Won’t tell me where she is, though.”

“For all they know, you could be an abusive boyfriend trying to hunt her down,” I pointed out.

“Instead of just a philandering one, you mean?”

I shrugged.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “Last night was out of line. I know that now.”

“And you didn’t know it last night? Maybe Andrea’s got the right idea.”

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “Hey, at least she’s got an alibi, thank God. And she’s not stuck with a future jailbird.”

“You think it’s that bad?”

He shrugged.

“The one thing I’ve got going for me right now is Walker,” he said. “They like me for it, but they love Walker. Stupid as that is.”

“You don’t think it could have been Walker?”

“No way,” Chris said.

“Why not? Not that I necessarily disagree with you, but I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

“Oh, it’s not that I don’t think he could kill someone,” Chris said. “If he was mad enough, and scared enough, I can see him losing all sense of reality and doing something he’d be very sorry for, five minutes later. But I don’t see him daring to kill the QB, even if she was firing him, and from what I’ve heard of how it happened, there’s no way he could have done it.”

“Why not?” I said. “No guts?”

“No head for heights,” Chris said, “and absolutely zero sense of balance or coordination. I’m his stunt double, remember? And not just for sword fights. Anything where he goes more than three feet off the ground, or anywhere near an edge, they bring me in. Rumor has it you did the balcony climb when you found her, right?”

I nodded.

“Not a lot of fun, was it?” Chris said. “No way Walker would even try that. The man won’t even climb a stepladder to change a light bulb.”

“Did you tell the police about this?”

“Yeah, of course I did. I’m not trying to withhold evidence that would help the poor guy. I know I didn’t do it, but I don’t think he did, either.”

“Do you think they believed you?”

“Probably not. He’s lawyering up, anyway. Don’t you love that phrase? Lawyering up.”

“I’m fonder of the phrase, ‘no longer a suspect,’” I said. “Who do you think did it, anyway?”

“No one with the show, if you ask me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s just a show,” he said, sounding rather surprised. “Just a job. Yeah, we all gripe about how she treated us, and if she fires us, we’re upset for a while. But it’s only a job.”

“Spoken with the sublime self-confidence of someone who can probably walk into half-a-dozen better paid jobs the minute Porfiria’s canceled,” I said.

“Yeah, but even so—the crew can get work, no problem,” Chris said. “The actors—maybe some of them won’t ever work again, but none of them believe it. They all think the next audition will get them the part. That’s where Andrea is now. Off in California auditioning. You want to know who I think they should be looking at? Them.”

“Those two people in the Amblyopian ranger costumes? Why?” I asked, following the direction of his pointing finger.

“No, I mean the fans generally. All of them. They’re the ones who get obsessive about this. They don’t like the way a character is developing or how an episode ends, and the next thing you know, there’s a Dumpster full of petitions in the mail room; the network’s mail server is down from the overload; protest sites all over the web. It’s a job to us, but for them it’s reality. So when the police finally figure out who killed her, it won’t be someone who got fired or was paid too little or treated badly on the set. It’ll be someone who doesn’t think Porfiria should have declared war on Urushiol, or double-crossed Mephisto, or slapped her maid Alopecia in season two.”

“That’s crazy,” I said.

“And killing people is sane?”

I couldn’t exactly argue with him.

“Just do me a favor, okay?” he went on. “When you and Michael move into that fancy house in the country with the jungle room and the Moroccan tent room and whatever else your mother has planned, get a damned good security system, okay? ’Cause I’d hate to wake up one morning and read in the paper that you got stabbed by some wacko who thinks she’s the chosen bride of Mephisto, and you’re messing with her man.”

And with that rather melodramatic closing line, he tapped his watch, picked up his musketeer hat, and strode out in the direction of the ballroom.

Okay, he had a good point. Several good points, in fact. I made a mental note to talk to Michael about installing a security system, and another mental note to have a serious discussion with Mother about her decorating schemes.

And then I sat back to ponder his take on who killed the QB.

A fan? Maybe. His reasoning sounded logical to me. But somehow, it didn’t feel right.

I was trying to figure out why when a voice interrupted my reveries.

“Have you seen Nate?”