We’ll Always Have Parrots

by Donna Andrews

  “That should be interesting,” I said.

  “The weird thing is that I am probably the most appropriate person to represent the other Ichabod Dilley,” he went on. “I didn’t know it before, but he’s my uncle.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t realize immediately that they were talking about your uncle.”

  “Maybe I would have, if my parents had ever told me I had an uncle,” Dilley said. “Up until this weekend, I always thought my dad was an only child, and now I find out I’m named after his black sheep younger brother who died before I was born.”

  “Oh, he’s dead,” I said, feeling slightly disappointed.

  “For thirty years,” Dilley said.

  “He must have been young,” I said.

  “Yeah, about twenty or so. Drugs,” he added, solemnly.

  “Drugs?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding. “I just finished talking to my parents. Dad wouldn’t say anything; just kept yelling that his drugged-out brother was dead and buried, and he didn’t want to talk about it. But after he hung up, Mom told me a little. She says the real last straw was when Dad had to pay off all these huge debts my uncle ran up. They almost had to sell the farm.”

  “Yeah, that could leave bad feeling,” I said. “Although I doubt if your uncle did it deliberately. At least the dying part.”

  “I’m hoping I can get her to tell me some more this evening. I need background for my talk tomorrow. And I’m sure there’s some interesting stuff to tell. It seems my uncle Ichabod dropped out of college and went to San Francisco and got involved in drugs and pornography.”

  “Drugs and pornography?”

  “It wasn’t that uncommon, thirty years ago,” Dilley said, sounding a little defensive.

  “Drugs, maybe,” I said. “But pornography?”

  “Yeah, these underground comics,” Dilley said, “really raunchy stuff, apparently. My parents were amazed to hear that anything he’d done had been made into a TV show.”

  “Consider the times,” I said. “Thirty years ago, TV kept married couples in separate beds, and now, look what you see.”

  “True,” Dilley said. “Maybe his work was only offensive to the backward, parochial sensibilities of the time. Perhaps today, instead of offensive, we’d find it bold, forward thinking, and socially relevant.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I said. “You can rescue your uncle from the slanders that have besmirched his reputation all these years.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Only—”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “What if it is pornography?” he said. “I’ve never seen his work.”

  “That’s easily fixed,” I said. “See that woman at the Dreamscape Booksellers counter?”

  “The one wearing antlers?”

  “Yes. That’s Cordelia—she sells used and rare books. Go see if she’s got some of your uncle’s stuff for sale.”

  He started forward, then turned around, looking doubtful.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “She’s a real book dealer,” he said. “Won’t she be insulted if I ask her about comic books?”

  “She may be miffed if she doesn’t have any to sell, but she won’t be insulted,” I said. “Call them graphic novels, if you’re worried; it’s a classier term.”

  He nodded and waded into the crowd.

  Chapter 11

  I watched, with amusement, the conversation between Cordelia and Ichabod Dilley the younger. As I predicted, she wasn’t insulted or even surprised at his question. She pointed to a couple of items in a locked glass case. He glanced down, and I saw him start. He’d seen the price tags, no doubt. Prolonged discussion followed. I wondered if Dilley was trying to bargain down the price—fat chance—or merely pleading with Cordelia to let him read her precious yellowing comics.

  “What’s up with Junior?” Steele, who’d been busy with a customer, asked me.

  “Apparently he’s decided to make up for his parents’ neglect of his uncle by championing the late Ichabod Dilley’s work. Although I think it’s mostly because his parents paid off Dilley’s debts when he died.”

  “They what?” Steele asked.

  “Paid his debts. Large ones. Of course, before he can champion his uncle’s work, he needs to know something about it,” I added. “I steered him to someone who can sell him a copy.”

  “Hope he’s well heeled,” Steele said. “I bet they’re charging a lot for those old rags.”

  “I hear the original first issue goes for over five hundred dollars now,” I said. “Probably more than the real Ichabod Dilley got for it back in 1969.”

  “Probably more than he got for all twelve issues,” Steele said.

  “More than the QB paid him for the film rights, anyway,” I said.

  “How would you know that?” Steele said.

  “She brags about it,” I said. “Not in public, of course; but sometimes when she gets plastered, she gets careless.”

  At three, the crowd in the dealers’ room thinned when Walker, the show’s other leading heartthrob, took the stage for his appearance, while the QB held court in the autograph room.

  Steele was talking to a slick-looking character who claimed to be the producer of an upcoming sword and sorcery flick that needed a vast quantity of custom armor and weaponry. If Steele asked me, I’d say make sure you get the money first, but so far he hadn’t, and I didn’t really know him well enough to offer unsolicited advice.

  And Steele kept glancing at me as if he didn’t want to say too much in my presence, so I took the opportunity to dash out for a much-needed bathroom break.

  I was waiting for the hot air machine to finish chapping my hands when the door burst open and Typhani ran in sobbing.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. I confess I was hoping she’d assure me that she’d only broken a fingernail. Or perhaps plead to be left alone and lock herself in a stall. Instead, she flung herself on me.

  It took several minutes before she calmed down enough to talk. I stood there, awkwardly patting her on the back and wondering if I was a bad person for worrying about the mascara stains on my costume.

  “Oh, she’s—she’s—she’s impossible,” Typhani wailed, finally managing to speak.

  “The QB? Yeah, impossible works,” I said. “Unbearable’s good, too, and obnoxious. I’d even go as far as unspeakable, if you like.”

  “And mean!” Typhani muttered, with surprising venom. “Mean as…as…oh, I don’t know.”

  Apparently vocabulary wasn’t Typhani’s strong suit.

  “Too mean to live,” she said, finally. “That’s what my mother used to say. Too mean to live.”

  “What has she done now?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, Typhani doubled over abruptly—was she having some kind of a seizure? No, she had put her head nearly on the bathroom floor and was staring past my feet, at the floor beneath the stalls.

  “No feet,” she said, bobbing up again. “Okay, I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but it’s about the hate mail she’s been getting. She got another one today and—”

  From one of the stalls, we heard the tinkling sound of liquid falling into a toilet. Followed by the sound of flushing.

  “Someone’s spying on us!”

  She shrank into the corner farthest from the stalls and stared at them with a panic-stricken face.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. I walked over to where I could see the doors to the stalls. All were ajar. Perhaps the eavesdropper was standing on the seat, hoping we wouldn’t notice.

  I strode over to the first stall and slammed the door open. Nothing. I did the same for the second, third, and fourth stalls. All empty.

  She was in the handicapped stall at the end.

  I took a deep breath and slammed open that door, too.

  Empty.

  Then, from near the ceiling, I heard the sound of liquid tinkling into a toilet. I glanced up to see a gray parrot sitting on an exposed pipe. As I watched,
the parrot fluttered its wings and made the sound of a toilet flushing.

  I sighed.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s only a miserable parrot,” I said. “It’s safe to talk.”

  “What if it overhears us and repeats what I say?”

  Interesting point. If Salome’s keeper was right, the parrot might imitate something shortly after we said it, but probably wouldn’t wander around the hotel repeating it for the rest of the convention. But what if the wrong person walked into the bathroom too soon? Better safe than sorry.

  “Can we talk somewhere else?” I suggested.

  “No, it’s okay,” Typhani said. She was blotting her eyes with a damp paper towel. “I’m all right now, honestly.”

  She left.

  So the QB was getting hate mail. If that surprised poor Typhani, she had a lot to learn.

  I was making sure all the bits of my costume were back in order when my mother stormed into the rest room.

  “There you are,” she said, when she saw me, and I relapsed briefly into that dreaded childhood feeling of knowing I had displeased my parents, but not yet knowing how.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?” I asked.

  “That woman,” Mother said. “I could strangle her with pleasure.”

  I winced. Over half the people in the hotel were female, but I had a feeling I knew exactly which woman she meant.

  “You have to do something,” Mother went on. “Your father is comforting Eric, but you have to do something about this.”

  “Eric?” I said, torn between anger and irritation. “What has she done to Eric?”

  As if in answer, Mother handed me a convention program. From the various stains and fingerprints, I deduced that it was Eric’s, and that my parents had fed him pizza for lunch. From flipping through the pages, I further deduced that Eric had adopted the common convention-goer’s goal of getting autographs from everyone pictured. He’d made a good start—I saw Nate’s signature, Chris’s, Walker’s, even Dilley’s, beside the giant question mark they’d used to substitute for his missing photo. When I got to the W’s, I saw that Michael had signed, and after him, someone named Maggie West. The space beside Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones was blank. Okay, this explained why Eric had gotten within striking distance of the QB, but not what she’d done to him.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “I know it’s a pain, standing in line, but her line probably isn’t as long as Walker’s or Michael’s. If he goes now—”

  “He stood in line,” Mother said. “And he asked her very nicely for her autograph. And that…witch threw the program back in his face and shouted at him!”

  “Strangling’s too good for her,” I said. Actually, I thought Mother was overreacting a little. Not that I’d ever tell her.

  “The child will probably be traumatized for life,” Mother said.

  Or perhaps the experience might teach him the folly of idolizing people on silly TV shows.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked.

  Mother hesitated.

  “I was about to say get her to apologize, but on second thought, I don’t want her in the same room with Eric,” she said. “But someone should tell her exactly what we think of her. I would, but I’m not sure they’d let me anywhere near her again.”

  What had Mother done to make herself persona non grata in the autograph room? I decided I’d rather not know, though chances were I’d hear all about it before the end of the convention. And did she realize what she was asking me to do? Tell Michael’s boss exactly what my family and I thought of her?

  Then again, why not? Odds were the QB couldn’t afford to fire Michael right now. It might be a good thing if she did, for that matter. Right now, at the peak of his popularity with the series, he’d probably find it relatively easy to find other roles. Meatier, more dignified roles that did not require him to prance around in tight leather pants.

  And if not, well, eventually we’d find a house we could afford without the acting income.

  “But first, get her damned autograph on the program,” Mother said.

  “Do you have any idea why she wouldn’t sign it?” I asked.

  “She kept shouting that she didn’t want her signature on the same page as that imposter’s,” Mother said.

  Imposter? I glanced at the page. I only saw signatures from Michael—that looked genuine—and Maggie West. Who, from reading her one-paragraph biography, had played the Duchess of Urushiol, Walker’s on-screen mother, for the first half of season one. I’d only started watching when Michael joined the show, but she looked familiar. Then again, she was an actress; I’d probably seen her in lots of things, if she’d been in the business as long as the QB had. Of course, that didn’t mean whoever signed the program was the real thing. Maybe the convention had invited the wrong Maggie West, too.

  “I’ll straighten it out,” I said.

  Chapter 12

  Straighten it out. Good idea. But how?

  Play it by ear, I advised myself. So as I strode toward the Innsmouth Room, where the autograph sessions were held, I let my anger at the QB build up. Not only for what she’d done to Eric, but for everything she’d done to anyone. Everyone. All weekend. Ever since I’d met her. Her whole life.

  I had a good head of steam by the time I reached the autograph room. Outside, I saw convention volunteers turning people away. Blast. I knew that my present mood would severely impair my ability to charm my way past security.

  But no, actually they were recruiting people. Drafting passers-by to stand in line for autographs. And distributing 8×10 black-and-white photos to the draftees.

  Okay, so breaking into line wouldn’t cause a riot.

  I moved along the side of the room. Michael wasn’t there. Probably just as well. But Nate, the scriptwriter, and Walker were. Nate was hovering attentively over the QB. Walker was waiting to take his turn.

  “Hey, Walker,” I said, slipping into place beside him. “Any chance you could sneak me to the head of the line? I want to get an autograph for someone who can’t make it.”

  “You sure you want to?” he said, surprised. “She’s in a lousy mood.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said. “Just do it.”

  He hesitated, no doubt suspecting that I hadn’t suddenly become an avid fan. I nudged him into motion, and then walked beside him to her table. Amazon security ignored us, as I’d anticipated.

  “Meg, how are you?” Nate said.

  Walker retreated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him heading for the other side of the room.

  “Wanted to get Miss Wynncliffe-Jones to sign a program for one of my friends.”

  “I’m sure she’d be happy to,” Nate said.

  He held out his hand for the program, but I didn’t surrender it to him. Or to the QB when the person she was talking to moved away and she reached out mechanically to take it.

  Maybe it was stupid, but I held the program out of reach until she finally looked up.

  “Oh, hello….” she said.

  “Meg,” I said. “You’ve seen me often enough to know my name by now. At least before the cocktail hour.”

  A faint crease appeared in her forehead. Anger? Alarm? I didn’t care which. Maybe just irritation at the monkey who’d used a trailing vine to drop down nearly level with our heads, and kept looking back and forth between us, rapt by our encounter.

  “What do you want?” the QB asked. Not openly hostile. Just cold.

  “Sign this,” I said, slapping the program down on the table in front of her. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t sign it for my nephew just now, and I don’t care. If you have some problem with Maggie West being at the convention, take it out on the organizers, not on a child.”

  She was looking at me intently now, as if seeing me for the first time. And she was taking a deep breath and drawing herself up for a tirade. I ought to know the signs—I’d seen her do the same stunt on every other episode of the show and countless times in person when hapless p
eople crossed her. The monkey hissed, as if warning that danger approached.

  “Stow it,” I said. “If you start shouting at me, I’ll shout louder, and you may not like some of the things I’ll say, but I’m sure everyone else will be fascinated.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what I would have shouted if she’d called my bluff, but it’s easy to blackmail the guilty. To my relief, she glanced over at the fans in line, and then bent her head and signed.

  “You don’t want me as an enemy,” she said, handing the program back.

  “No, I don’t want anything to do with you at all,” I agreed. “I’d be just as happy not to see you for the rest of the convention. Though you’ll see me, if you mistreat another child the way you did my nephew.”

  I checked to make sure she’d really signed, and not just written something rude in Eric’s program. No, there it was; Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones. More legible than usual.

  “You’ll regret this,” she said.

  “What are you going to do?” I said. “Fire Michael? Go ahead, if you want to see your stupid show go down the tubes.”

  She jerked as if I’d struck her, and I smiled, and I’m not sure what would have happened next if the monkey hadn’t startled us both by beginning to shriek loudly, baring its teeth in what was obviously a gesture of aggression.

  Though when you come right down to it, so was my insincere smile. Points to the monkey for honesty, I thought, as I turned on my heels and walked out.

  Behind me, I could hear someone trying to shoo the monkey away, and then the QB’s voice.

  “I’m tired now, Nate. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short.”

  None of the people in line seemed upset that the QB was leaving before signing their programs. In fact, some looked relieved.

  Mission accomplished, I decided to detour through the green room for a snack.

  I found Michael there, sitting in a corner with Francis, his agent. Michael looked stern. Francis looked unhappy. Good. Michael needed to put some backbone into Francis. Or better yet, get a new agent. A good agent. He’d had a very good agent, back in his struggling, soap opera days, but unfortunately about the time Michael left acting for academia, she’d given up agenting to open a trendy restaurant. So when Walker recommended Michael for the part on Porfiria, Michael had started working with Walker’s agent, Francis. Who had been a disaster.