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?“Is that slut with him?” my mother fumed.
?This was a surprise. My mother never used words like “slut” and I found I laughed out loud.
?She always knew the right thing to say.
?I told her about the convention and how I felt so alone, and she listened and then gave the appropriate encouragements. Ten minutes later, I finished the call, feeling much better.
?I retrieved my envelope and pulled out a small magazine. It was emblazoned with “Northeast Mystery Conference” in fancy lettering. There was a logo of the letters seen through a stylized magnifying glass.
?I went through it and read up on the five days of lectures, speeches, book signings, and panel discussions. There were some Holmes ones including: Heard Vs Carr: Who Wrote New Holmes First; Conan Doyle and Holmes, A Study in Opposites; Was Moriarty Actually Neitzsche?
But there were other mystery writers and characters, with a panel on Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone, Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe, and even a comical look at the famed Philip Marlowe in book and film.
?It was going to be a rather thorough program. I hoped so. I had been in on the early plans before I became persona non grata.
?I double-checked the time for Mark Watkins’ opening night lecture and noted I was listed for a panel discussions with him the next day.
?I wondered when I would actually make the acquaintance of Mr. Mark Watkins.
5. Backlist
Mark Watkins
?In the afternoon, I traveled uptown to my condo to retrieve clothes and toiletries, then I wandered about the hallways of the hotel to locate the correct conference rooms.
?Once I was sure of which rooms I would visit tonight and tomorrow, I decided to take some time to explore the booths in the big convention room, like Candy had suggested.
?I went to the mezzanine, and with my badge proudly displayed, went into the large open ballroom: “The Marketplace.”
?It was more impressive than my cursory glance had given me earlier. Using pipe and drape, the room was divided into numerous booths for the individual vendors.
?It was amazing just how much stuff there was. One stall was filled with books and DVDs; the next was beautiful handmade weapons: swords, knives, and even a cudgel.
?One of the booksellers had mint-condition magazines that dated back to the 1920s. Lurid drawings emblazoned the covers of such provocative periodicals as Real Detective and Murder Magazine. In the time these stories were published, they were scandalous, but by today’s standards, they were pretty tame.
?The good guys always won, crime didn’t pay, and the murderer was always captured.
?Then again, who was I to judge? The most necessary part of any Holmes story was that the master detective always caught the malefactor, much to the chagrin of Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.
?I found a booth marked by a sign: “YE OLDE MYSTERIOUS TOBACCO SHOPPE.” The man behind the table displayed a marvelous supply of tobaccos and pipes of every sort and shape. There was a perfectly handsome, hand-carved, curved pipe.
?I read the small sign under it:
Ser Jacopo Calabash
Reg price $475
Conference special $380
?I decided I would not take up smoking this year.
?“Watkins, eh?” the man behind the table said.
?I glanced at my name badge and then into the eyes of the merchant. He was heavy set, tall, and muscular, with a head of wild hair, and one eye that looked off to the right at all times.
?“That’s me,” I responded.
?“You the writer?” the man wondered, and gave a grimace I hoped was supposed to represent a smile. “Doing the opening lecture tonight?”
