Obviously this wasn’t one of Francis’s relaxed days. I saw him reach into his right jacket pocket and then glance around to see if anyone was watching before slipping something into his mouth.
I sighed and shook my head. Francis had relapsed. Not that it was any of my business, but still. If it was humanly possible to OD on TUMS, one of these days Francis would do it. Should I sic Dad on him?
The crowd began shushing each other when a six-woman contingent of the Amazon security guards marched in and arrayed themselves in front of the stage.
“What the hell is this?” muttered someone to my right.
Chapter 5
I glanced over and saw a small, round-faced man in a business suit standing, like me, against the wall. He stared at the crowd with—no, fascination wasn’t the word. Horror. In college, I’d briefly dated a man who kept a snake. Briefly, because he’d made the mistake of letting me watch him feed his pet. The expression on the small man’s face mirrored what I’d seen when the mouse spotted the snake at the other end of the glass enclosure.
We weren’t the only people in the room in civilian clothes, but the man’s conservative business suit, combined with the expression on his face, made me wonder if he’d strayed into the wrong convention. Possibly the wrong universe. He wore a convention badge, but turned around, so I couldn’t tell if it was a Jungles of Amblyopia badge like mine.
“It’s the opening session of the Porfiria convention,” I said.
“Yes, I see,” he said, holding up what I now recognized as a convention program identical to the one I’d studied earlier. “But just what is a Porfiria convention? I know I probably should have asked that question much earlier, but it never occurred to me.”
“It’s a television show,” I began. “Called—”
“I only watch CNN,” he said, with a slightly haughty air. “And sometimes The History Channel.”
Heaven preserve us from TV snobs, I thought. Aloud, I explained.
“That could be why you find this so…different. You’re at a convention for fans of a TV show called Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle.”
“Ah,” he said, still sounding puzzled. “And what are they all supposed to do at this convention?”
“They attend panels and presentations by the actors,” I said. “Also the scriptwriters and the costume designers and anyone else the organizers can round up. And they stand in line for the stars’ autographs, and they buy and sell Porfiria merchandise. Have a Porfiria costume contest. Things like that. Typical con. Convention, that is,” I added, realizing that for someone who’d never been to one, con might have other more sinister meanings.
“They really spend the whole weekend doing this?” he asked.
“And pay handsomely for the privilege.”
“Insane,” he muttered. “No offense meant,” he added, looking at me.
“None taken,” I said. “I’m not a Porfiria fan.”
“Then why are you…ah…”
He gestured weakly at the surrounding crowd.
“My boyfriend’s on the show,” I said, pointing to the stage, where Michael had just stepped out, accompanied by the diminutive Amazon, who walked to the microphone and began unsuccessfully trying to make herself heard over the cheering.
“Before I introduce Michael—” she began, but the cheers drowned out her words. She had to try again several times before the crowd finally let her finish.
“I wanted to remind you about our very special guest!” she said.
A murmur of anticipation swept through the crowd.
“Thanks to the diligent detective work of our organizing committee,” the Amazon continued, “for the first time ever at a Porfiria convention, we will be presenting…Ichabod Dilley!”
For a few moments, the auditorium remained silent. I could see people looking at each other with puzzled expressions, and shrugging their shoulders.
“What’s an Ichabod Dilley?” someone said, from the back of the room, and scattered titters followed.
Then Michael stepped forward and began applauding vigorously. I followed suit, as did the Amazon, and after a moment, so did the rest of the crowd. Still applauding, Michael took a step toward the tiny Amazon, bent down, and said something into her ear. She nodded.
“Yes,” she said, when the clapping diminished. “Ichabod Dilley, the author and artist who created the original Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle comic books!”
The applause that followed this clarification was genuine, if considerably less passionate than that which had greeted Michael’s arrival.
“Comic books?” said the civilian beside me.
“Yes,” I said, as the applause died down and Michael stepped to the microphone. “The TV show is based on a series of comic books from the seventies—written and drawn by a guy named Ichabod Dilley. Apparently someone hunted down the old guy and invited him to the convention.”
“Oh, my God,” he said.
As Michael began, I saw the little man slip along the back wall and disappear through the exit door.
Well, to each his own. I was going to stay for Michael’s talk, even though I’d heard it all before. There were only so many questions Porfiria fans ever asked, and only so many ways to answer them. I’d heard the same tales of his salad days in the soap operas, the same funny anecdotes about hijinks and bloopers on the set, dozens of times. Especially the story of how his old friend and fellow soap opera star, Walker Morris, who had been with the show since season one, had gotten him the part of Mephisto.
“They needed someone to play a dashing, debonaire, devilishly handsome, but thoroughly corrupt and conniving wizard,” he would say. “Of course Walker thought of me immediately!”
It always got a laugh, even though some of the crowd had heard it several times before.
But if Michael was disappointed at hearing the same old questions and tired of delivering the same punch lines, you couldn’t tell from his manner. That was part of his charm, I thought, with a sigh. Not only did he appear to be having the time of his life—he probably was. And he sounded better. The adrenaline boost he got from stepping in front of an audience had done the trick for his throat and nose, at least for now.
Of course he’d credit the gargling and the nose drops.
As ten o’clock approached, the Amazon came back to the microphone and reminded the audience that Michael would be signing autographs for the next two hours in the Innsmouth Room.
Two hours! Wonderful. His fans would get two hours of the cheerful, smiling public Michael. I’d get to hear about his writer’s cramp. I turned and headed for the door, hoping to beat the crowd who would disperse as soon as Michael disappeared.
“And don’t forget!” the Amazon chirped. “At noon, Blazing Sabers will be giving a stage combat demonstration, and at one o’clock, you can meet Ichabod Dilley, the creator of Porfiria, Queen of the Jungle! The man responsible for creating the wonderful fictional world we all know and love!”
“Balderdash!” exclaimed a voice behind me.
I glanced back to see a tall, gangly, fifty-something man, walking behind me toward the exit. His face looked vaguely familiar, though oddly naked. Probably because he was polishing rather than wearing his glasses, thick lenses set in thick, dark, retro-style plastic frames. When he replaced the glasses, recognition gelled—it was the show’s chief scriptwriter.
“Hello, Nate,” I said. “I see they let you away from the keyboard for the weekend.”
“Hey, Meg,” he said. “No, I brought the laptop along. Herself wanted to work on scripts for next season.”
I was astonished—not by his dedication to the job, but by the fact that he deigned to recognize me. Nate was a consummate snob with an unerringly acute sense of the show’s pecking order. The first time I’d visited the show’s set, Michael had been encouraged to find Nate actually talking to me. He’d interpreted it—accurately, it turned out—as a clue that they might want him back. If Nate now actually called me by name, that meant Michae
l’s position on the show was solid. Not a bad thing, since we could never afford the house we hoped to buy unless Michael continued plotting and conniving as Mephisto for at least another season.
“That’s too bad,” I said, as we escaped into the hallway.
“It’s not enough that I have to be at her beck and call, twenty-four seven,” he grumbled, falling into step beside me, “or that she has to mangle everything I write. But to sit there and hear some nitwit calling that stupid comic book writer the one responsible for creating the show! I’m the one responsible for the show! Every word of it!”
Except for the ones the QB mangled, I thought, and it seemed to me that the actors had more than a little to do with making it into a show instead of just a script. But I didn’t think he’d like hearing that.
“He did do the original comic book series,” I said instead.
“And who knocked that piece of junk into a working pilot?” Nate exclaimed. “Who keeps that heap of cardboard characters and clichés lurching along week after week?”
“You, of course,” I said.
“Damn right,” he said. “Do you know how hard it is to write an episode that lets Her Self-Centeredness think she’s the star while still giving the fans enough of what they want to see? Which is not her tired old mug, believe me.”
I made sympathetic noises. The first time I’d heard him raging about the QB I’d been flattered and a little worried that he’d be so indiscreet with a relative outsider. Now that I knew Nate better, I realized he wasn’t that disgruntled, just a recreational complainer. His griping never got him in trouble because everyone had stopped listening.
“Every time I need to introduce a new character, I go through ten, twelve different names before I get one that she thinks sounds like a real Amblyopian name. Real Amblyopian name! Who the hell knows what a real Amblyopian name is, anyway?”
“Maybe you should use the same method Ichabod Dilley did,” I suggested. “Haven’t you noticed that every one of the original comic book names came out of a medical dictionary?”
“A medical dictionary?” he echoed.
“Precisely,” I said. “Porphyria’s an obscure but serious blood disease. Maybe he thought no one would catch on if he misspelled it. Amblyopia’s an eye condition. All the original names were medical terms. You know the Duke of Urushiol, Porfiria’s arch-enemy? Urushiol’s the active ingredient in poison ivy; the oil that gets on your skin and causes the rash.”
He stared at me, for a moment. Then he smiled.
“So all I have to do is get a medical dictionary, and flip through it for some obscure diseases, and I’ve got my genuine Amblyopian names,” he said.
“You can tell whoever complains that you went to the original source material,” I said.
“Oh, I like it,” he said. “Is there a bookstore around here?”
“Probably,” I said. “But even better—see that man in the purple turban? Ask him.”
I pointed to where Dad stalked through the corridor in his wizard’s gear, trying in vain to look dashing and sinister.
“Ask one of the fans?” Nate said, recoiling.
“He’s not a fan—he’s only pretending to be,” I said. “That’s my father—and he’s a medical doctor. He probably knows more obscure diseases than Ichabod Dilley ever heard of. I’m sure he’d love to help.”
“Fabulous,” Nate said, and darted off in pursuit of Dad.
After several wrong turns, I found the dealers’ room. A long line of fans waited outside the main entrance, so I sneaked around to a side door one of the convention organizers had shown me the previous night, when I’d come down to scout the lay of the land. Only dealers and convention staff were supposed to know that this door was unlocked. I slipped in and glanced around to get my bearings when—
“En garde, Madame!”
I looked down to find the point of a sword at my throat.
Chapter 6
“Chris, that’s not funny,” I said.
The sword point drifted away from my throat as the burly man holding it collapsed in a fit of laughter.
“Meg, if you could have seen your face,” he said, lowering the sword and offering me his arm. “Did you really think someone was trying to hurt you?”
“It’s a fan convention, Chris, remember?” I said, ignoring his attempts at chivalry. “Half the women in the hotel wish I didn’t exist, and odds are at least one of them is crazy enough to do something about it.”
“Never fear!” he said, with a flourish. “I will defend you with all the skill at my command!”
“Never mind defending me,” I said. “If you don’t get your sword peace-bonded, security’s going to take it away from you, and I just might help them.”
“All right, all right,” Chris said. “I’ll put it back on your table in a minute.”
“Chris,” I said, and then stopped, and counted to ten. Chris knew the rules about weapons at a fan convention. Attendees could wear weapons as part of their costumes, but convention security would confiscate any weapon not peace-bonded—secured in its sheath, scabbard, or holster with an electric-orange plastic binding that the guards could spot from across the ballroom. Chris’s own weapon was neatly secured, so he’d picked up one of the swords I was selling—I recognized it now.
“Chris, the point is to sell my swords, not let security babysit them till the end of the convention,” I said.
“Mercy!” he said, falling on his knees. “I come to beg you to lend your sword to my cause. Seriously,” he added, in his normal voice. “I need a favor from someone who’s reasonably good with a sword.”
“What kind of a favor?” I asked, trying not to let the flattery sway me. Chris Blair was the show’s blademaster, in charge of drilling the cast in fencing and stage combat and choreographing all the fights. I’d been learning as much as possible about sword fighting since I’d started making weapons, and fancied I was making progress, but to have Chris call me reasonably good was heady stuff.
“Can you fill in for Andrea? We’re giving a stage combat demonstration at noon, and Andrea can’t make it.”
“Will you spell me for when I need to get away from the booth?”
“No problem,” he said.
“It’s a deal,” I said. “What’s up with Andrea?”
“Long story,” he said, which, knowing Chris, meant that regardless of how long or short the story might be, it was none of my business. Not a good sign. In addition to being a member of his demonstration troupe, Andrea had been Chris’s girlfriend for the last year or so. If Andrea had been sick or had a schedule conflict, Chris would have said so. I hoped there wasn’t trouble between the two of them, but I knew better than to push it any further.
“Come on, then,” he said. “We need to rehearse.”
“Just let me touch base with Alaric Steele,” I said. “Have you seen him?”
“Alaric Steele?” Chris said. “Why do you need to check with him?”
“We’re splitting the booth, remember?” I said.
“Damn, and here I thought maybe you were getting ready to dump actor-boy and find a man who knows how to handle a weapon,” Chris said.
“I thought you said Michael was the best swordsman on the show,” I countered.
“He’s not bad for an actor,” Chris said, shrugging. “But if you get tired of watching him fight off all his groupies—”
“I’ll come and watch you fight off yours,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” Chris said. But I knew from tales of past conventions that Chris had more than his share of female attention, even though his appearances on camera were limited to long-shots as a stunt double for Michael’s old friend Walker, who couldn’t be trusted not to injure himself with a pencil, much less a sword. I wondered, briefly, if the fans had anything to do with Andrea’s absence.
“I’ll make sure Alaric’s okay with holding down the booth for a while and join you,” I said.
“The Ruritanian Room, as soon as possible,
then,” Chris said, with a deep bow. Then he flung his black cloak dramatically over his shoulder and strode off, drawing admiring glances from all he passed. I shook my head. Loyalty to Michael didn’t prevent me from noticing that Chris looked better than ever in the Van Dyke beard he’d grown. Especially when he was wearing his black hair long and flowing over his Amblyopian guard uniform—which, conveniently for the costume shop, looked remarkably like a French musketeer’s uniform. I had to admit that if I didn’t have Michael, Chris would be just the sort of temptation I’d have a hard time resisting.
Though the dramatically named Alaric Steele could give him competition. At least he could the last time I’d seen him, twelve years ago. And when I reached the booth, I saw he’d held up well. I noticed a few streaks of gray in the long brown ponytail, and his face was a bit more weathered—he was probably well into his forties by now. But he was still blessed with the kind of lean, angular body, high cheekbones, and deep-set, brooding eyes that would keep him in the Attractive Older Man category for another twenty years.
Hell, I thought, when he smiled briefly in greeting. Forget the older bit. Just plain attractive.
“You bring an outfit?” he asked, looking at my T-shirt and jeans.
“Is that required?” I asked, glancing around the dealers’ room. Most of the people behind counters wore costumes, although they favored generic fantasy/Renaissance Faire gear over costumes specific to Porfiria’s universe.
“Pumps up sales, or so the ones who’ve done this before tell me,” Steele said. He had donned a well-worn leather jerkin over a loose-fitting white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On him, it didn’t look like a costume. It looked lived in. Not dirty, just familiar and comfortable.
“Your first time at a bash like this, then?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’ve done a lot of Ren Faires,” he said. “But this…”
He looked a little taken aback by the whole thing. Not encouraging. When I’d seen Steele’s name on the vendor list—an established blacksmith I knew slightly—I’d assumed that the fan convention would be a reasonably profitable venue. It would have been nice if he’d mentioned that he’d never been to a fan convention before and had no idea if they were worth doing. Ah, well.
We’ll Always Have Parrots Page 3