men in security uniforms on his heels. They hurried by me and through the office door. I followed, but couldn’t keep up, my knees feeling weak, arms growing numb. I had tears in my eyes.
Why did that thoughtless Tommy Bufford have to go and get himself killed before I had my nap!
And before very long, I had lost them in the crowded lobby.
My mind rushed past my own childish need for a nappy-poo in the face of a terrible and unexpected tragedy. What would happen to the convention once the word got out? Would it be cancelled? How would that affect the fans, and the vendors, and the already planned events, from the costume party to the awards show? And what about the auction, where Mother and I counted on selling our drawing?
If the convention was cancelled, we’d be out money we couldn’t afford to lose. Our cross-country trip had been financed on the promise of a nice payday from our disposal locker find of that vintage Superman drawing.
But what if the convention went on? I could only imagine the kind of pall that would drape itself over the rest of the proceedings. Would this be the first and last Bufford Con, now that Tommy was gone?
As I moved by the hotel’s open-walled bar, I saw that it was crammed with fans of drinking age, loud, boisterous, and blithely unaware that a murderer was among them, perhaps in their midst right now.
Her cherry-festooned white dress exchanged for a more businesslike dark pants suit, Violet was seated at one of the little tables; with her was a woman in jeans and a gold t-shirt boldly labelled in black: STAFF. Tommy’s assistant, a tablet computer before her on the table, appeared to be giving the staff member instructions.
I paused in the bar’s entry area, biting my lip. Surely Violet, as Tommy’s right-hand “man,” should be informed about his death. But was it my place to do it? As I pondered that, the staffer got up, said something with a tight smile, and quickly left, with the purposeful gait of an underling dispatched to duty.
I shrugged to myself and approached Violet.
The tall goth girl with the Bettie Page hair and pink lips looked up blankly. I might have been a waitress whose presence hadn’t been requested.
Just a little cross, she said, “Yes?” Then recognition spread across her face, and the crossness left, though nothing particularly friendly replaced it.
I said, “We met yesterday. I’m—”
“Brandy. Brandy Borne. One of our honored guests.” She smiled mechanically. Then her features softened. “If you’re here to apologize for your mother’s outbursts at the opening ceremony, don’t bother. Actually, I’ve had very good feedback about that. Eccentricity is valued in these circles.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear, but this isn’t about that. It’s—”
She raised a red-nailed hand. “Mr. Sipcowski told me that someone entered your room last night, and the convention is very sorry about that. But these things happen in the city.”
“It’s not that, either,” I said. “There’s something that you should—”
Her violet eyes flashed with alarm. “You have put the drawing in the hotel’s safe?”
“Yes.” I sat down. She was making it hard, with all her efficiency, for me not to just blurt out the terrible news about her friend.
She sighed. “Good . . . because it would be awful if anything happened to it—it’s the centerpiece of the auction.”
For a moment there, I actually thought she might be concerned about Mother and me.
I said, “This isn’t about my mother or the drawing. It’s about your friend—Tommy.”
Her heavy eyebrows rose. “What about Tommy?” She put the tablet aside, and pushed back her chair. “Make it quick, would you? You can’t imagine how busy I am.”
“I’m afraid you’re about to get a whole lot busier.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed, as she sensed the disaster in my voice. “God, what is it?”
The time for blurting had come: “Tommy’s dead.”
She smiled briefly in
Why did that thoughtless Tommy Bufford have to go and get himself killed before I had my nap!
And before very long, I had lost them in the crowded lobby.
My mind rushed past my own childish need for a nappy-poo in the face of a terrible and unexpected tragedy. What would happen to the convention once the word got out? Would it be cancelled? How would that affect the fans, and the vendors, and the already planned events, from the costume party to the awards show? And what about the auction, where Mother and I counted on selling our drawing?
If the convention was cancelled, we’d be out money we couldn’t afford to lose. Our cross-country trip had been financed on the promise of a nice payday from our disposal locker find of that vintage Superman drawing.
But what if the convention went on? I could only imagine the kind of pall that would drape itself over the rest of the proceedings. Would this be the first and last Bufford Con, now that Tommy was gone?
As I moved by the hotel’s open-walled bar, I saw that it was crammed with fans of drinking age, loud, boisterous, and blithely unaware that a murderer was among them, perhaps in their midst right now.
Her cherry-festooned white dress exchanged for a more businesslike dark pants suit, Violet was seated at one of the little tables; with her was a woman in jeans and a gold t-shirt boldly labelled in black: STAFF. Tommy’s assistant, a tablet computer before her on the table, appeared to be giving the staff member instructions.
I paused in the bar’s entry area, biting my lip. Surely Violet, as Tommy’s right-hand “man,” should be informed about his death. But was it my place to do it? As I pondered that, the staffer got up, said something with a tight smile, and quickly left, with the purposeful gait of an underling dispatched to duty.
I shrugged to myself and approached Violet.
The tall goth girl with the Bettie Page hair and pink lips looked up blankly. I might have been a waitress whose presence hadn’t been requested.
Just a little cross, she said, “Yes?” Then recognition spread across her face, and the crossness left, though nothing particularly friendly replaced it.
I said, “We met yesterday. I’m—”
“Brandy. Brandy Borne. One of our honored guests.” She smiled mechanically. Then her features softened. “If you’re here to apologize for your mother’s outbursts at the opening ceremony, don’t bother. Actually, I’ve had very good feedback about that. Eccentricity is valued in these circles.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear, but this isn’t about that. It’s—”
She raised a red-nailed hand. “Mr. Sipcowski told me that someone entered your room last night, and the convention is very sorry about that. But these things happen in the city.”
“It’s not that, either,” I said. “There’s something that you should—”
Her violet eyes flashed with alarm. “You have put the drawing in the hotel’s safe?”
“Yes.” I sat down. She was making it hard, with all her efficiency, for me not to just blurt out the terrible news about her friend.
She sighed. “Good . . . because it would be awful if anything happened to it—it’s the centerpiece of the auction.”
For a moment there, I actually thought she might be concerned about Mother and me.
I said, “This isn’t about my mother or the drawing. It’s about your friend—Tommy.”
Her heavy eyebrows rose. “What about Tommy?” She put the tablet aside, and pushed back her chair. “Make it quick, would you? You can’t imagine how busy I am.”
“I’m afraid you’re about to get a whole lot busier.”
Violet’s eyes narrowed, as she sensed the disaster in my voice. “God, what is it?”
The time for blurting had come: “Tommy’s dead.”
She smiled briefly in
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