“Nothing like that,” I said.
“Just fan fic written by gay fans,” Foley said.
“No, usually by women,” Maggie said. “God knows why; if I see an actor I like, I fantasize about seeing him with me, not with another guy. The name comes from the slash sign used to punctuate it. Mephisto-slash-Urushiol. For some reason, it bugs Walker.”
“Duchess-slash-Porfiria,” Walker countered.
“Point taken,” Maggie said, with a laugh.
“So we’re not talking about anything violent,” Foley said.
“No, but it does bring up an interesting possible motive for murder,” Walker said. “What if one of the fan fic people got a cease-and-desist letter from the QB’s lawyers and took it way too personally?”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Foley said, not sounding convinced. He swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed the cup in the general direction of the trash can as he turned to go.
“You know,” I said. “Since Porfiria’s based on a comic book, I suppose the show’s lawyers also have to worry about fake comics, too.”
Foley stopped when he heard that, and turned back.
“You see a lot of that?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“Do we see it? No,” Maggie said. “We work very hard at not seeing it. But it happens.”
“I suspect you can find a lot of it in the dealers’ room,” I said. “Most of it’s probably pretty crude and amateurish, but some of it, I bet you’d think it was the real thing.”
Foley glanced back at me and nodded. Then he turned on his heel, and this time, he made it out the door.
“What was that in aid of?” Michael said.
Okay, so maybe the cops weren’t as short-sighted about the comic scrap as I’d assumed.
“I wish they could leave the poor fans alone,” Maggie said. “Who are they really hurting?”
“It’s a legal thing,” Walker said, with a shrug.
“Oh, and as long as it’s legal, it’s perfectly fine, right?” Maggie said. “Remember that the next time you’re complaining about your contract.”
“You know what strikes me when I look at this stuff?” I said. “It’s not that different from what Ichabod Dilley was doing when he first started writing and drawing the Porfiria stories.”
“He made up his own world,” Michael said.
“Out of bits and pieces of popular culture,” I said. “Tell me you don’t see bits of Conan and Tarzan and Tolkien characters in the Porfiria comics. And I bet the early underground comics were just as crudely produced as these are.”
“Worse, from what I remember,” Maggie said.
“And come to think of it, if Ichabod Dilley were still alive, I wonder if he’d have to get the QB’s permission to do new Porfiria comics, too.”
“Is this significant?” Michael asked. He didn’t say more, apparently remembering that he was the only one here who knew anything about the scrap of comic I’d found in the QB’s hand.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Just then, we noticed a couple of convention volunteers lurking in the doorway.
Chapter 28
“Come on, boys,” Maggie said. “It’s time for lunch with the stars. Assuming they’ve found a restaurant that’s open.”
“Lunch with the stars?” I repeated.
“We each sit at a table with eleven people who have donated obscene amounts of money to charity for the privilege,” Michael said. “Dinner, however, is another story. I would rather dine with the star of my own personal firmament, if you can get away from your booth for an hour.”
“Flattery will get you anywhere, and Chris can fill in at the booth,” I said. “He owes me. What time?”
“Probably around six,” he said. “Early, anyway. I can come by when I’m free. We have to make it early, because the festivities start up again at seven. We’re judging the open costume competition.”
“And Chris and Harry and I are doing another stage combat demonstration,” I said. “As if everyone at the convention didn’t get to see me stab myself in the foot the first time around.”
“Well, I didn’t see it,” he complained. “I was off signing, remember?”
“I take it back,” I said. “For you, I’ll gladly make a fool of myself again.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “I’ve been doing that all day, and people keep applauding. Gotta run; try not to tick off Foley so much that he arrests you before dinner.”
“I have no intention of ticking him off at all,” I called after him, as he headed for the door. “I’ll be sitting in my booth.”
“I thought you’d be sleuthing,”
“That, too.”
As I turned to go, I realized that they’d left the dozen or so samples of fan fic on the table. I tidied them into my tote. Odds were they had nothing to do with the murder, but you never knew.
But as I walked back to the dealers’ room, I found myself thinking about the fan fic. And about the scrap of paper I’d found in the QB’s hand. Was it fan fic, or the real thing?
And was it perceptive, or just stupidly obsessive, to keep coming back to that scrap of paper? And to the perhaps irrational feeling that to understand it, I needed to know a lot more about what happened back in 1972? Maybe it was a good thing that I’d steered Foley to the fake Porfiria comics in the dealers’ room. But it would be even better if he’d poke into the real ones. Into the past. Would it do any good to suggest it?
No harm, anyway.
When I got to the dealers’ room, I found Foley himself standing just outside the door. He looked free, so I decided to tackle him.
“Have you got a moment?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, glancing at his watch as if to say, “But only a moment, so make it snappy.”
“Look, this may sound stupid, but are you looking at what happened back in 1972?”
“For example?”
“For example, that around 1972, Miss Wynncliffe-Jones bought all the rights to the Porfiria comic books for a sum now widely considered larcenously low? That shortly afterward, Ichabod Dilley, the creator of the comics, died under suspicious circumstances? And that the piece of paper found in her hand appeared to be a portion of one of those comics? A piece of paper, of course, that I haven’t told anybody about, apart from Michael.”
“We appreciate your discretion,” Foley said. “And we’d appreciate if you’d continue keeping quiet about the scrap of paper, although I don’t think it’s that strong a link to 1972. From what I hear, even the original comic books wouldn’t be all that valuable if not for the TV fans.”
He sounded—well, not exactly patient. More like he’d had plenty of practice in not sounding impatient.
“What about the fact that Francis used to be her agent back then?”
He looked a little less deliberately patient at that.
“I imagine he’s had a lot of clients if he’s been in the business that long.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “And he’s probably seen a lot of them murdered, too; you know what a cutthroat place Hollywood is.”
Foley’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t say anything.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“What about the rumor that the relationship between Nate Abrams and Miss Wynncliffe-Jones was more than professional?”
Okay, I was grasping at straws here. The more I thought about Karen the costumer’s hint that Nate was—how had she put it?—sweet on the QB, the more I dismissed it as her overly romantic interpretation of events. And did Foley’s remarkably blank expression mean that he found this interesting, or just that he was really tired of listening to me?
“I don’t suppose you know anything to substantiate this rumor?” he asked.
“No, but if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
I expected him to ask who I’d heard the rumor from, or warn me about not interfering in a police investigation, but he simply nodded and walked
off.
Damn. I didn’t get the feeling he’d totally ignored me, but I knew I hadn’t convinced him. Not surprising; all I had was my gut feeling that whatever happened in 1972 had something to do with the murder. Not much to go on.
But it was all I had. And just in case Foley’s focus on present-day motives didn’t work out, maybe someone should look into the past. Or start looking, anyway. By Sunday afternoon, the suspects would scatter over the continent. How far could I get in a day and a half?
At least I knew where to start. With the comic books.
“No way,” Cordelia said, a few minutes later. “Do you know what those comics are worth?”
“I don’t want you to give them to me,” I said. “I just want to look at them. It’s important.”
“Why?”
Probably not a good idea to say I was trying to solve the QB’s murder.
“There were only twelve Porfiria comic books ever published, right?” I asked.
“Right.”
“So what would you say if I told you there might be another one?”
“You have a lead on the Lost Thirteenth Porfiria?” Cordelia said, in hushed tones.
Apparently I’d accidentally tapped into an existing rumor.
“Maybe,” I said. “I need to study the twelve again first.”
Again. As if I’d ever actually read any of them.
“If you get it, you’ll let me handle the sale? This could be the biggest thing since…well, I don’t remember anything like it. You will, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Definitely an existing rumor—and not just any rumor, but one of mythic proportions in the comic book world.
It took me fifteen more minutes of wheedling, and in the end, I had to bribe her, but I finally talked Cordelia into letting me borrow all twelve issues of the original Porfiria. Chris willingly agreed to take my place at the booth. I left him and Steele perched at the two ends of the booth like matching gargoyles and stole away to my room to read the comics.
And was surprised to find Michael there, lying on the bed with a wet washcloth draped over his face.
“In the movies, they usually find something a little larger to put over the body,” I said.
“Well, I’m not that far gone yet,” he said, with a weak laugh. “Head’s killing me, though. Congestion. Thank heaven I have a break.”
“What happened to lunch with the stars?” I said.
“Postponed until tomorrow,” he said, “assuming either the health department reopens the restaurant or they find an alternate site. Just as well. I’m exhausted.”
“I could leave,” I offered.
“No, stay,” he said. “Your company will hasten my recovery, as long as you can manage not to tell me all the medical events currently happening in my lungs and sinuses. I really don’t want to think about all that.”
“Ah, you’ve been talking to Dad, then,” I said. “I was wondering what he was up to.”
“I just thought I’d ask what decongestants he recommends,” Michael grumbled. “How was I supposed to know that he considers decongestants a dangerous interference with the drainage that is part of the body’s natural healing process?”
“Because it’s been at least a year since you had a cold,” I said. “He goes off on these natural healing kicks every few years. I happen to have brought some of the decongestants he recommends when he’s in his normal, better-living-through-chemicals mode. I suspected you might need them before the con was over.”
“You’re an angel,” Michael said. “And if you wouldn’t mind running some hot water over this compress…”
With his compress reheated and the promise of relief washed down by a cold Coke, Michael perked up sufficiently to notice what I was doing.
“I presume there’s a murder-related reason for you to be sitting here reading comic books instead of minding your booth?” he asked, in a voice slightly muffled by the washcloth.
“Was that a slam at comic books?” I asked. “Although actually, I think ‘graphic novels’ probably are better words after all.”
“Makes you feel less silly?”
“‘Comics’ seems to imply a cartoonish style, and there’s nothing cartoonish about Ichabod Dilley’s drawings. Elegant’s more like it. The man’s brilliant. Or was brilliant, more’s the pity.”
“I could work up a good fit of jealousy over that remark if the poor wretch weren’t dead,” Michael said.
Chapter 29
In between trips to the bathroom to reheat Michael’s compress, I went through all twelve comics, page by page, comparing each frame with the shot in my camera. It took most of the hour. I could probably have done it in half the time, even with the compresses, if not for the plastic gloves I was wearing.
“What’s with the gloves, anyway?” Michael asked.
“They’re supposed to protect the paper from the oils on my skin,” I said. “I suppose it makes sense; the paper’s pretty brittle and yellow already.”
“I didn’t realize you collected comics.”
“I don’t,” I said. “I borrowed them from Cordelia. She provided the gloves. And even though she isn’t here to see, I have this sneaking feeling she’d find out if I don’t follow orders. She probably has an inventory of every nick and tear on every page, and I’ll never hear the end of it if I make any more.”
Of course, after a while, I did get used to the gloves, but by that time, I had gotten caught up in the story.
“Caught up in Porfiria?” Michael echoed, when I told him as much. “Maybe you need the compress.”
“No, seriously,” I said. “It’s not that they’re necessarily better than the TV show, but they’re certainly different.”
“From a different era,” Michael suggested.
“That’s partly it,” I said. “Definitely pre-PC. In the TV show, Porfiria’s a very modern woman. Undisputed ruler of her country. Courtiers and counselors leap to do her bidding. Whenever things look darkest for Amblyopia, Porfiria frowns, looks thoughtful, and then comes up with a plan that saves the day.”
“Or at least knows exactly who to send for to save the day,” Michael said. “‘My lord wizard, I have need of your subtle and devious mind.’”
“Don’t gloat. Yes, on TV she usually calls Mephisto, but he doesn’t exist in the comics. The way Dilley wrote it, Porfiria was ruler in name only—her regents were supposed to run things until they found her a suitable husband; and since whoever married her would, under Amblyopian law, become king, the regents were in no hurry to arrange the wedding.”
“Is that our problem?” Michael asked. “Evil regents?”
“I don’t know about evil,” I said. “Porfiria seems to enjoy her unmarried state. She spends most of her time lolling around scantily dressed, eating bonbons, taking endless bubble baths, and ogling whatever handsome young men wander into the frame.”
“Sounds like the QB,” Michael said.
“And in each issue, whenever things look grimmest, Porfiria arrives on the scene, bats her eyelashes, and uses her apparently irresistible charms to save the day—usually by seducing one or more of Amblyopia’s direst foes.”
“So there’s something to the Kansas relatives’ accusation of pornography, after all,” Michael said, with a muffled chuckle. “I should have read those comics ages ago.”
“I wouldn’t bother taking off the washcloth,” I said. “The relatives overreacted. Everything happens offstage. Porfiria invites the Pellagran ambassador or the heir to the throne of Niacin into her private garden for a conference, and the next few panels show her courtiers standing outside, watching garments sailing over the garden wall, hearing titters and bits of mildly risqué dialogue. But only mildly risqué; not pornographic or raunchy.”
“That’s odd,” Michael said. “Doesn’t fit my image of underground comics.”
“Mine either.”
“I mean, with the TV show, we’ve got the network standards and practices office to keep us from go
ing too far,” Michael said. “Much to Nate’s dismay; he has a positive genius for writing accidental double entendres.”
“Fine by me,” I said. I might be in the minority, but I was just as happy that the QB’s vision for the show hadn’t included graphic love scenes. I could do without seeing Michael in bed with any of the show’s parade of twenty-something starlets.
“But Dilley didn’t have any censors watching over his shoulder, unless the early seventies were a great deal less free-wheeling than people made them sound,” Michael said.
“And yet there’s nothing here that would upset the network,” I said. “You see worse on sitcoms every day. I wonder why.”
“Good taste?”
“Or maybe just a lack of firsthand material to work from,” I said.
I flipped back a few pages.
“Yeah,” I said, “My money’s on inexperience. There’s a certain adolescent quality to the drawings. The content, not the style. Exuberance and bashfulness in equal measure. A desire to shock the audience, but underneath, the lingering fear that the audience might not be shocked after all—might only laugh.”
“That’s surprising,” Michael said.
“Why? After all, his nephew said he was only about twenty when he died. He might not have had all that much sexual experience.”
“You’d think he’d have learned a few things, hanging around Haight Ashbury in the Summer of Love,” Michael said.
“You can’t prove it from the Porfiria comics. Maybe he was a late bloomer.”
Michael abandoned his compress long enough to look over my shoulder and agree that, yes, the comics were singularly innocent, all things considered.
“I wonder why,” he mused, disappearing again under the washcloth. “I think it’s more apt to be lack of nerve, not lack of experience.”
No way to tell, really, I thought. Not my generation or my gender. I just filed away my gut impression that the Ichabod Dilley who’d drawn these pictures hadn’t left Kansas very far behind.
“A penny for them,” Michael said, and I realized I must have fallen silent for rather a long time.
We’ll Always Have Parrots Page 16