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?“Didn’t do as well as his knock-off,” Allen whined.
?“Well, if he did steal your book, the winner was the reading public, because they got to read a work by a gifted writer and a skilled craftsman. Talents you will never be accused of possessing.”
?“Man,” Allen said, exasperated. “You’re pretty cranky. You’re not having your period, are you?”
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? I had reached the limit and could feel a black rage rise in me. I turned away to face the elevator. “Leave me the hell alone.”
?“Whoa, Sheryl, stay calm. This conference is for the Northeast Mystery Club, and you know I am a member, right?”
?“Of course you are,” I noted snidely.
?“And we are sharing a panel on Thursday.”
?This made me turn to face him. “You’re kidding! You wormed your way onto my panel?”
?“Wormed-shmurmed. I published a Sherlock Holmes story—”
?“Unauthorized,” I spat.
?“Public domain,” he shot back. “And as an expert, I am putting my two cents in,” he sneered, and with a wave turned to go.
?“Your two cents wouldn't buy a penny. You are no expert, and having slogged my way through your novel, you are certainly no writer.” I threw my shoulders back and got into the elevator, which took me to the 12th floor.
?According to the paper holder the front desk had given me, my room was 1234. The holder contained a pair of the flat plastic key cards the size of a credit card. This was the standard practice.
?Out of the elevator, I walked a bit down the hall, where I unlocked my room and stepped in.
?It was a nice room with a good-sized bathroom and closet at the entranceway. This opened to a bedroom with a king-sized bed and a writing desk near the phone.
?I put my small suitcase on the metal stand I took from the closet and began to take clothes out of the case and put them in drawers or hang them up.
?I also checked my supply of latex gloves, shoe covers, and plastic zipper bags, putting a couple of pairs of gloves into my small handbag along with my magnifying glass. I also made sure my fingerprint powder and other necessities were undamaged.
?If you are going to write about detectives, I’ve always felt you should be prepared to play the part.
?I would need some distraction, because I might end up spending all of my downtime here in the room if my encounter with Allen was a preview of what was to come.
?I looked at the bed and was suddenly overwhelmed by a depression so profound I needed to sit down. Thirty-four years old, unmarried, no children, and it looked like there would be none.
?I knew that would be okay, biological clock aside. It’s just I never thought it wouldn’t happen.
?Watching my parents my entire life, I just expected I would settle down, marry, and have a child or two, like my mother did with me and my sister, Jenny.
?My mother was an artist, created amazing paintings, and several times a year traveled for art shows, while Dad struggled to figure out how to prepare meals and run the house while she was gone.
?But they loved each other and were committed to their marriage, each other, and us. It had been a great way to grow up.
?Suddenly, my phone was in my hand, and I was pressing the button for my mom.
?“Hello,” came out of the tiny speaker.
?“Mom, it’s Sheryl,” I gulped.
?“Yes, dear, how are you?”
?I found tears were in my eyes. “I need a pep talk, Mom. I’m at the convention and all of Randall’s friends are here. I don’t know if I can take it.”
