disbelief, but then could see I wasn’t kidding, her expression darkening. “That’s impossible. I just saw him. You just saw him.”
She was already punching the speed dial of her cell phone. Listening, she frowned. “Tommy never lets it go to voice mail. . . .”
“He is dead, Violet. My mother and I found him.”
The dark eyes flashed. “Where?”
“Service elevator behind the Gold Ballroom. I’m on my way back there. I just alerted Mr. Sipcowski. You should probably come with me.”
Her eyes got moist and a quaver entered her voice. “How . . . how did he . . . ?”
“I’ll tell you what I know on the way.”
I did so.
As Violet and I stepped off the elevator on level C, we were approached by one of the uniformed hotel guards.
“Mr. Sipcowski says you can go into the ballroom, but no farther.”
I asked, “Where’s my mother?”
“Is your mother the, uh . . . talkative older woman?”
“That’s her, all right.”
He gestured with his head and, as a tribute to his professionalism, did not roll his eyes. “She’s in there now.”
The guard opened a ballroom door, and Violet and I entered, while he maintained his post.
The huge room seemed somber now—all the former fun and joy sucked out of it. Mother, in a middle front-row seat, craned her neck at the sound of the door clicking closed again.
“That ungrateful so-and-so Robert threw me out, dear,” her unhappy voice echoed back. “But not before Vivian Borne had herself a good, long look at the crime scene. Why, hello, Violet . . . sorry we had to be the bearer of such bad tidings.”
I sat next to Mother, while Violet, cheeks mascara-streaked now, took the chair next to me. Then we were just sitting there, staring at the small stage, where only a short time earlier an ebullient Tommy had given his opening address to an adoring audience, basking in their praise for his pioneering status in their four-color world.
Mother dug in her fanny pack and produced a tissue, and, reaching over me, handed it to a sniffling Violet.
Violet, wiping her eyes, said, “I don’t understand it . . . I don’t understand it. . . .”
Leaning forward, Mother asked, “ What don’t you understand, dear?”
She blew her nose, a surprisingly unfeminine honk coming from the attractive young woman. “Who would want to kill a sweet soul like Tommy?”
“Well, obviously someone ,” Mother said matter-of-factly, causing me to give her a sharp look, her seeming callousness prompting Violet to sob.
Mother was not actually unkind, but had long since developed a pragmatic acceptance of the second half of the life-and-death dynamic.
The gold curtain parted as Robert Sipcowski came through, like an actor taking the stage for a one-man show. Maybe he was about to present one.
He looked at Violet, then the brown eyes in the weathered face turned disapprovingly on me. “Is there anyone else you’ve told?”
I squirmed in the chair, a kid called to the principal’s office. “No, sir. I just thought Violet should know. After all, she’s Tommy’s assistant, and—”
“I’m more than that,” Violet snapped through a sniffle. She looked toward the security chief. “I manage our office. A convention is a business, you know.”
“I understand,” Sipcowski said, his voice softening. “But this event has to be contained until the police arrive.”
Is that what Tommy’s murder was? An event?
Robert’s walkie-talkie squawked on his belt and he retrieved it. “Yes?”
“ The police are here .”
“Good. Escort them by the stairs—I don’t want the guests alarmed. Who’s in charge?”
“ Ah . . . that detective from the Fourteenth—Cassato .”
I looked sharply at Mother, our eyes asking the same question. Could Tony be out of witness protection, and back on the force?
And if so, why hadn’t he told me?
Mother whispered, “A lot of Cassatos in a city this size, dear.”
“ Cop Cassatos?”
“Why, certainly. It’s a name as common
She was already punching the speed dial of her cell phone. Listening, she frowned. “Tommy never lets it go to voice mail. . . .”
“He is dead, Violet. My mother and I found him.”
The dark eyes flashed. “Where?”
“Service elevator behind the Gold Ballroom. I’m on my way back there. I just alerted Mr. Sipcowski. You should probably come with me.”
Her eyes got moist and a quaver entered her voice. “How . . . how did he . . . ?”
“I’ll tell you what I know on the way.”
I did so.
As Violet and I stepped off the elevator on level C, we were approached by one of the uniformed hotel guards.
“Mr. Sipcowski says you can go into the ballroom, but no farther.”
I asked, “Where’s my mother?”
“Is your mother the, uh . . . talkative older woman?”
“That’s her, all right.”
He gestured with his head and, as a tribute to his professionalism, did not roll his eyes. “She’s in there now.”
The guard opened a ballroom door, and Violet and I entered, while he maintained his post.
The huge room seemed somber now—all the former fun and joy sucked out of it. Mother, in a middle front-row seat, craned her neck at the sound of the door clicking closed again.
“That ungrateful so-and-so Robert threw me out, dear,” her unhappy voice echoed back. “But not before Vivian Borne had herself a good, long look at the crime scene. Why, hello, Violet . . . sorry we had to be the bearer of such bad tidings.”
I sat next to Mother, while Violet, cheeks mascara-streaked now, took the chair next to me. Then we were just sitting there, staring at the small stage, where only a short time earlier an ebullient Tommy had given his opening address to an adoring audience, basking in their praise for his pioneering status in their four-color world.
Mother dug in her fanny pack and produced a tissue, and, reaching over me, handed it to a sniffling Violet.
Violet, wiping her eyes, said, “I don’t understand it . . . I don’t understand it. . . .”
Leaning forward, Mother asked, “ What don’t you understand, dear?”
She blew her nose, a surprisingly unfeminine honk coming from the attractive young woman. “Who would want to kill a sweet soul like Tommy?”
“Well, obviously someone ,” Mother said matter-of-factly, causing me to give her a sharp look, her seeming callousness prompting Violet to sob.
Mother was not actually unkind, but had long since developed a pragmatic acceptance of the second half of the life-and-death dynamic.
The gold curtain parted as Robert Sipcowski came through, like an actor taking the stage for a one-man show. Maybe he was about to present one.
He looked at Violet, then the brown eyes in the weathered face turned disapprovingly on me. “Is there anyone else you’ve told?”
I squirmed in the chair, a kid called to the principal’s office. “No, sir. I just thought Violet should know. After all, she’s Tommy’s assistant, and—”
“I’m more than that,” Violet snapped through a sniffle. She looked toward the security chief. “I manage our office. A convention is a business, you know.”
“I understand,” Sipcowski said, his voice softening. “But this event has to be contained until the police arrive.”
Is that what Tommy’s murder was? An event?
Robert’s walkie-talkie squawked on his belt and he retrieved it. “Yes?”
“ The police are here .”
“Good. Escort them by the stairs—I don’t want the guests alarmed. Who’s in charge?”
“ Ah . . . that detective from the Fourteenth—Cassato .”
I looked sharply at Mother, our eyes asking the same question. Could Tony be out of witness protection, and back on the force?
And if so, why hadn’t he told me?
Mother whispered, “A lot of Cassatos in a city this size, dear.”
“ Cop Cassatos?”
“Why, certainly. It’s a name as common
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