For the Sake of the Game

by Laurie R. King

  Vincent’s methods seemed to work. Ed arrived a moment later with her soda and promised that the nachos would be following soon.

  “Truly, you are wise in the way of cons,” Tilda said, though she couldn’t help thinking that as a freelance writer, she usually couldn’t afford extra nights at a hotel or hotel-priced drinks. When she wasn’t being comped, she could barely tip adequately, let alone generously. At least she was good with names, and might be able to fake the friendly part. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here this weekend—I didn’t realize you were such a Sherlock Holmes fan.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m a Sherlockian, a Cumberbunny, an Elementapeep, and a Sherlock’s Homeboy. Which are you?”

  “Just somebody who likes Sherlock Holmes.” She’d read the Doyle books and seen enough theatrical productions that she’d had to do very little prep for the weekend, but she didn’t think she was devout enough to deserve a title.

  Vincent, on the other hand, never liked anything without becoming an ardent fan. Though he was an entirely average-looking man in height, build, and features, even in the world of fandom he stood out because of his pure, unbridled enthusiasm. Since many of his favorites were on the obscure, formerly famous side, he was a great source of information.

  “I am really looking forward to your first panel,” Vincent said. “I volunteered as room monitor to make sure I get a good seat.”

  “You think it’s going to be crowded?”

  “Are you kidding? It’ll be standing room only. This is the first time Noah Anderson and Michael Lee have appeared together since Lee walked off the set of Sherlock’s Home! Everybody wants to hear about what happened.”

  “Then they’ll be disappointed. I’m not supposed to mention the Food Feud or entertain questions about it from the audience. It will be referred to if, and only if, Anderson or Lee bring it up, and since they’re the ones who made the rules, that’s not likely. I think the reason I was asked to moderate the panel is because I haven’t taken sides.”

  “Of course. In your position, you can’t say anything publicly.” He lowered his voice. “But privately? What do you think? Did Anderson do it on purpose, or did Lee fake it all?”

  “Not saying a word.” She resisted his entreaties to give her opinion. Even the bribe of half the plate of nachos didn’t sway her, especially since she knew Vincent would let her share anyway. When he finally gave up, they traded movie gossip while noshing on nachos until it was time for Tilda to go.

  She said, “I’m heading on to the panel room. Somebody is supposed to meet me there and introduce me to Lee and Anderson.”

  “I’ll come with to make sure the room’s ready. You know, room monitor stuff.”

  “And if you get a chance to meet Lee and/or Anderson, that would just be a lucky happenstance.”

  “Of course.” Vincent left cash to cover their tab, plus a tip that matched his criteria. Then he surveyed the lobby, which had grown considerably more crowded as additional Sherlocks, Watsons, and even non-costumed fans arrived for the weekend. “Fortunately, I know a shortcut to the big ballroom.”

  “Because of course you scoped out the layout ahead of time.”

  “When it comes to cons, I’m Sherlock Holmes. You can be my Watson.”

  If it got her where she was going, she would accept that.

  The door Vincent led her through was marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, but as they made their circuitous way through utility corridors, she spotted at least one person in a deerstalker and Inverness cape, so perhaps others were following the teachings of Vincent. They emerged from a door in the back of the bland hotel ballroom.

  “Hey, Regina,” Vincent said to a sturdy-looking woman with a long dark brown braid and a blood-red t-shirt with IRREGULAR printed on it. “Tilda, this is Regina—she’s in charge of con security. They’re calling them the Irregulars because—”

  “Dude, I know who the Baker Street Irregulars are,” Tilda said.

  “Regina, this is Tilda—she’s moderating the panel.”

  Tilda said, “I’m supposed to meet Lee and Anderson ahead of time.”

  “Right. I’ll be escorting them from the green room shortly. And just so you know, when I met Lee last year, he was kind of a jerk. Thinks he’s hot stuff.”

  “I’ve seen the type before.”

  “Anderson is okay, I guess, but he won’t talk to Lee, and Lee won’t talk to him.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Tilda said dryly. In her experience, the best panels included plenty of back-and-forth between panelists. Apparently this was not going to be one of those panels.

  The walkie-talkie at Regina’s belt buzzed. “That’s probably them now. Excuse me.”

  After Regina left, Tilda said, “Vincent, is meeting con staff part of your convention prep?”

  “The trick is to volunteer to help with setup. I spent hours last night stuffing con swag bags—we bonded over that.” He went to chat with other Irregulars at the front of the room. If he didn’t know them already, he would soon.

  Tilda saw that the setup for the panel was the usual convention design: a low platform, a long table with a white tablecloth that faced the audience, chairs with a modicum of padding, microphones, and cardboard name tents to identify the panelists.

  As a nice touch, reusable water bottles had been left for each of them. Two had labels with names on them in script letters: Noah and Michael. The third had Moderator—written in marker. Tilda accepted it philosophically. Once the celebrities she was interviewing got engraved glass mugs while she got a red Solo cup.

  She was checking her notes when the back door opened.

  Noah Anderson entered first. He was a distinguished man, and Tilda saw he was wearing the same style of academic chic he’d adopted while hosting Sherlock’s Home: a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches. Behind him came Michael Lee. Lee was more handsome than the traditional Sherlock Holmes, but he had the requisite long, aquiline nose and dark brows. Tilda had wondered if he’d dress in an Inverness cape, but he was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a button-down shirt, with a black leather backpack slung over one shoulder at a determinedly casual angle.

  Regina, looking annoyed, followed them inside. “Mr. Lee, Mr. Anderson, this is Tilda Harper, who will be moderating your event today.”

  Anderson cordially shook her hand and said, “Call me Noah, please.” Lee just nodded.

  As Regina had warned, the two men did not speak to each other. In fact, they were working hard to not even look at each other.

  Bowing to the inevitable, Tilda stood equidistant from the two men to explain her plans for the panel.

  This time Anderson nodded, while Lee said, “And no mention of the incident, right?”

  “Absolutely not. If anybody in the audience brings it up during Q&A, don’t answer—I’ll shut them down.”

  “Good.” Lee almost turned his head in Anderson’s direction, but stopped himself just in time.

  Vincent pretended to ignore them as he attended to his room monitor duties: checking to make sure the microphones were working properly, removing detritus that had been left on the panelists’ table, and putting a RESERVED FOR MONITOR sign on a chair in the front row. Once everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he glanced hopefully in Tilda’s direction.

  Figuring she owed him for the nachos and the shortcut, she said, “Hey, Vincent, can you come over here a minute?”

  He didn’t quite sprint.

  “Gentlemen, this is Vincent Peters. He’s our room monitor and will help keep us on schedule. If there’s anything you need during the panel, just flash him the high sign.”

  “Anything at all!” Vincent put in.

  Lee went back to perusing his Twitter feed, but Anderson offered Vincent a handshake and said, “Nice to meet you, Vincent. Looks as if we’re in good hands.”

  Vincent beamed.

  Tilda checked her watch. “We should sit down. They’re going to let the crowd in soon.”

  Regina opened the doors while T
ilda and her charges settled, and every seat in the room was quickly filled. Vincent kept busy greeting friends, but not so busy that he didn’t let Tilda know when it was time to start. She cleared her throat and began.

  There were grumbles when she announced that the Food Feud was off limits, but otherwise, the panel went well. Lee and Anderson kept the audience thoroughly entertained, and though they didn’t interact, neither did they interrupt or run over one another. In fact, they were so well-behaved that Tilda started to wonder if they were really as antagonistic as she’d been led to believe. Could they have been playing up the Food Feud? Controversy kept fan interest high, and arguments between fans—like the one she’d seen in the lobby earlier—drove DVD sales and YouTube views.

  As Anderson finished a funny story about researching Victorian era toilet paper, Vincent held up the fifteen minute warning sign, so Tilda went to her standard final question. “I’m going to open it to the audience in a moment, but I want to give Noah and Michael a chance to plug upcoming projects.”

  The two men looked at each other directly for the first time all evening, then grinned, as if they’d been waiting for somebody to ask that question. The audience could tell something was up, and phones came out, camera apps ready.

  Anderson said, “There is an announcement I wasn’t intending to make tonight, but we just can’t keep it quiet anymore. Sherlock’s Home is returning to television next year—with both Michael and myself on board.” The two men stood as if they’d practiced—and they probably had—and shook hands, both going for a two-handed clasp that evolved into a manly hug. The standing ovation was deafening.

  After that, there was no way they were ending the panel on time. It was ten minutes before people even calmed down enough to take their seats, and then Lee and Anderson took turns explaining that the feud had been blown completely out of proportion, and how they couldn’t wait to work together again. Tilda thought Lee came off a little more genuine, but of course, he was an actor. At least Anderson was convincing enough that more trusting fans would report that the announcement was spontaneous instead of the publicity stunt Tilda suspected it to be. From the number of people tapping on their phones, the story was already trending on social media.

  After fifteen more minutes of mutual admiration, Tilda saw Vincent emphatically waving the STOP sign. So she said, “I hate to do this, but we’ve got to clear this room for the next event. I want to thank both of you for letting us all be the first to know—”

  Before she could finish her “thanks-and-get-out” spiel, somebody in the audience yelled, “A toast!” Others echoed the call, and Lee and Anderson were willing to oblige. They picked up their metal water bottles, clinked them—pausing just long enough for people to take more pictures—and took big swallows as the audience applauded once more.

  Tilda was starting to gather her notes when she saw the expression on Lee’s face change from a smile to a grimace. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out, and after a couple of labored breaths, he toppled over onto the platform.

  That’s when Anderson saw what was happening. “Michael! MICHAEL!”

  “Vincent, call 911!” Tilda yelled. “Regina, get hotel security!” She thought she smelled peanuts when she knelt down beside Lee, and knew what that had to mean. He was wheezing so hard it hurt to hear, and there was a blue tinge around his mouth. She’d never realized how horrible anaphylactic shock was.

  Anderson was crouched on the other side of Lee. “He needs his EpiPen.”

  Tilda patted the actor down the best she could, but there was nothing like that in his pockets. “Does he have a bag?”

  Vincent joined them on the platform. “Here!” He pulled out Lee’s backpack from under his chair and started rummaging around in it.

  “Just dump it out!” Tilda said.

  He did so, and a variety of stuff tumbled onto the platform. Tilda had never seen an EpiPen, but there was only one item that looked like a good possibility: a tube about the size and shape of a fat marker with an orange cap on one end and a blue one on the other. Vincent tried to hand it to her.

  “I don’t know how to use that,” she objected.

  “Me, neither.”

  They looked at Anderson, who shook his head.

  “There are directions on the side,” Vincent said, still trying to give it to Tilda. Then a guy dressed as Dr. Watson, with a ridiculous mustache that covered half his face, hopped onto the platform. “I’m a nurse—I know what to do.”

  Evidently he wasn’t a trauma nurse, because he wasted valuable seconds by dropping the EpiPen back into the pile of Lee’s belongings and having to fish it out again. Then he popped off the blue cap and jammed the EpiPen onto Lee’s thigh so hard Tilda winced. He held it there for several seconds while they watched for a reaction.

  There was no change.

  “He must have gotten a big dose,” Nurse Watson said. “Is there another EpiPen?”

  Vincent scrambled around but found nothing in the backpack, so Tilda grabbed the microphone to yell, “Does anybody have an EpiPen? We need an EpiPen NOW!”

  A Mrs. Hudson ran up. “Take it!”

  Nurse Watson held out his hand for the EpiPen—which he promptly dropped just as he had the first one. Tilda wanted to push him out of the way and take over, but restrained herself until he found the thing and then used it on Lee’s other leg.

  Tilda could tell the second injection wasn’t helping, either. If anything, Lee seemed worse.

  “Why isn’t it working?” Anderson said. He took Lee’s hand. “Stay with me, Michael. Stay with me!”

  A phalanx of panicked con and hotel staff members burst into the ballroom, but could do nothing but stand around watching Lee try to take a breath. An eternity later, hotel security led in two EMTs with a gurney, and Tilda backed out of their way, pulling Vincent with her.

  They watched the EMTs work, but after a few minutes, they lifted Lee onto the gurney and wheeled him away, with Anderson following along. Tilda remembered Lee’s scattered belongings, and scooped them all up to shove into his backpack, then trotted after them. She caught up with them in the lobby, and thrust the bag at Anderson. He murmured his thanks as they headed out the front door.

  By the time Tilda got back to the ballroom, it had cleared out except for hotel staff prepping the room for the next event, but Vincent was waiting for her.

  “He’s going to be okay, right?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She picked up her notes, got her satchel, and after a quick look to make sure she hadn’t missed any of Lee’s stuff, said, “Do you think your private waiter is on duty? I could use a drink.”

  The bar was full of people who’d seen Lee’s collapse, but Ed squeezed them into a corner and brought beers promptly. Tilda craved something stronger, maybe several somethings, but as much as she hated the thought, she was going to have to write up both Anderson’s announcement and what had happened to Lee.

  “He’s going to be okay, right?” Vincent asked again.

  Tilda shrugged, and they quietly sipped their beers. Half an hour later, they got their answer. A cluster of people in the lobby started talking loudly, sounding upset. Vincent rushed off to find out what had happened, but Tilda was sure she knew even before he returned.

  Michael Lee had died.

  He’d never even made it to the hospital.

  Though she wasn’t normally a hugger, this once she allowed Vincent to tearfully embrace her as he told her the news. Truth be told, she kind of needed it. She’d seen death before, but not like this. She could still hear Lee struggling to breathe.

  She and Vincent spent the rest of the evening at the bar. Neither had any interest in the other scheduled convention events and they shared an unwillingness to be alone. Instead Tilda reluctantly pulled out her laptop to write up the story. Though she was normally as enthusiastic about breaking a story as any reporter, this time she took no pleasure in it.

  At least she didn’t have to go far
for background material. The convention program provided plenty of detail about Lee’s life, enough people came by their table to mine quotes for a dozen articles, and Vincent had several good photos of Lee and Anderson before Lee fell ill. Some of Vincent’s friends offered shots of Lee afterward, including while the EMTs were working on him, but Tilda declined those with extreme prejudice.

  The capstone to her piece would have been a quote from Anderson about his lost friend, but if he’d returned to the hotel, he’d done so discreetly. Conflicting accounts from Vincent’s friends said he was suicidal, strangely unmoved, distraught but only for the sake of his TV deal, and under arrest for murdering Lee. Though Tilda and Vincent consulted their best sources, both at the con and online, Tilda was unable to find out which of the first three was the true story. She didn’t give credence to the latter tale. Given that Lee and Anderson were poised to work together again, she couldn’t imagine what Anderson’s motive could have been.

  Finally Tilda finished up several versions of her article for different markets and sent them off, feeling like a ghoul. While she indulged in another beer to reward and/or console herself, she listened to Vincent and acquaintances try to guess whether or not the convention would be canceled. Nobody knew for sure until nearly eleven, when Regina came to their table.

  “I thought you’d want to know that the convention will continue as planned,” she said. “Well, mostly as planned. We’re canceling the Victorian dance Saturday night—it didn’t seem appropriate. And we’ve moved two panels Sunday morning to make room for a memorial service. Mr. Anderson says it’s what Mr. Lee would have wanted.”

  “And the police are okay with that?” Tilda asked. “Aren’t they investigating?”

  “Oh, they’ve come and gone. Anderson told the cops that somebody was eating peanuts on the flight from Vancouver—Lee texted him all about it. He had a mild reaction to them but took an antihistamine, and thought he was okay. It wasn’t until the panel that he had what they call a delayed reaction. They’re rare, but can affect people hours later.”