What do you know about Kay Goldberg?" Barbara asked Greg as they were having dinner the next morning. She'd gone back to bed after the interesting talk the previous night and she tactfully didn't mention that Janea had come in just after dawn. Or that Greg had a hickey on his neck.
Through the window of the restaurant she could still see the snow coming down. Conditions had come together to create the perfect snowfall and they were already closing roads all over Roanoke. Everyone assured her that they'd be open by Monday and they wouldn't get stuck over in the hotel. But she was glad she was inside; it was seriously snowing.
"Not much," Greg said, yawning and then taking a sip of coffee. "Why?"
"She knows about Special Circumstance," Barb said, as soon as Janea had taken a sip of coffee. The dancer didn't quite spit it out.
"What?" they both said, simultaneously.
"What I said," Barbara replied. "And she's got a background. At a guess, Shin Bet or Mossad."
"You're kidding," Greg said. "She's a sports writer who does some mystery. She's from Charlotte."
"She lives in Charlotte," Barb said. "I live in Mississippi. I'm not from Mississippi. Five gets you ten Goldberg's not her real name. And she's a . . . what's that term Daddy uses? Oh, she's a player. Or she was. She's going to give us a list of potential suspects sometime today. She knew I was with Janea, and you, and she knew my last name. I didn't give it to her, I hadn't mentioned it in public except to check in. But she knew it. What does that tell you?"
"Interesting," Greg said, getting over his shock. "Do you think she has any connection to the investigation?"
"I hope not," Barbara said. "Because I told her about it. I wouldn't have if I had the slightest thought she did. I wanted to know if she had any ideas. All she said was that she knew a lot about her fans and would give us a list of potential suspects. You probably should have talked to her directly."
"I might," Greg said, thoughtfully. "After I call the Bureau."
Not having anything else to do after breakfast, Barbara wandered back to the Dealers' Room. She wandered over to the sword dealer's booth but he was with a customer.
"I'd like to apologize for yesterday," she said to the man when the customer had wandered away with a bag full of leather stuff she wasn't willing to admit she recognized.
"It's not problem," he said, smiling. He was wearing contacts that made his eyes black except for silver irises. They were truly bizarre. "I get migraines sometimes, too. They can come on really quick. My name's Mack, by the way."
"Thanks," Barb said, smiling back. "I did feel I needed to apologize, though. I almost dropped the sword."
"Not even close," Mack said. "More like you couldn't let it go."
"It's a beautiful sword," Barbara said. "And you do very good work. Take care."
"You too, God lady," Mack said.
"Why do you say that?" Barb said, pausing as she was about to leave.
"It's nice to meet a Christian lady that's not a Bible-thumper," Mack said, smiling. "But you wear it like a skin."
"Oh," Barbara said, puzzled. "Well, thank you."
She continued around the circuit of the room and saw the brunette from the night before sitting at her book booth reading.
"Hello," Barb said. "We never really got introduced. That's a lovely blouse, by the way, it really goes well with your eyes."
"Thanks," the woman said, tilting her head to the side and smiling at Barbara. "I'm Candice."
"I enjoyed last night," Barb said, a crease appearing in her forehead. "The conversation was interesting."
"You should have stuck around," Candice said. "Folsom was really depressed when you left. You were the perfect lady for him."
"I'm married," Barbara pointed out, again.
"So is he," Candice said, frowning. "Not very happily, but . . . Anyway, his thing is he likes to find . . . how's he put it? 'The best looking, least available, woman at the con and monopolize her.' "
"I'm not the best looking woman at the con," Barb said.
"No," Candice said, "there's a redhead wandering around who's really spectacular. But she looks . . . more available. And you're probably next and you're not. And he's not by any stretch boring to be around. I was once one of the ladies he monopolized and it was an interesting night." She saw Barbara's face and sighed. "Talking. We stayed up all night, in a public place, talking."
"He certainly seems popular," Barb admitted.
"And he got that way fast," Candice said, gesturing at a bookshelf. "From nobody to best-selling with multiple books out in less than three years. The term 'phenomenon' comes to mind. He just says he made a deal with the devil."
"Deal with the devil?" Barbara asked, her eyes wide.
"It's an expression," Candice replied, shrugging. "Actually, Pier is very good with promoting new authors. And he's a good writer."
"I've got . . . things to do," Barb said. "Besides sitting out in the cold. Although . . . it was interesting."
"Folsom's very good at holding court," Candice said. "He even puts up with Baron when everybody wants to strangle him or at least ask him to get to the point. He even puts up with Mandy when you want to stuff a sock in her mouth."
"I met Mandy last night, too," Barbara said, pausing. "She had a lovely skirt."
"Yes, she did," Candice said, her eyes crinkling. "And you always compliment people."
"It takes nothing and makes people's lives a bit brighter," Barb said. "You can always find something to compliment in a person, even if it's their shoelaces."
"I'm not that nice," Candice admitted. "In fact, I'm not nice at all."
"Yes, you are," Barbara said, definitely. "Or, rather, you may not be nice but you are anything but bad or evil."
"I'm all bad," Candice said, smiling.
"You're lying, too," Barb replied. "There's not a touch of evil to you."
"You don't know me very well," Candice said, shaking her head.
"You'd be surprised," Barbara contradicted. "You've had a rough life, you've got quite a few people you'd be happy to see dead. But you've never actually tried to arrange it. And you didn't tell Baron to shut up or at least get to the point. Which a less nice person would have done. What happens within your mind and soul is not the definition of your personal evil."
"And you're a mind reader?" Candice asked, glaring at her.
"No," Barb said. "I'm just a very good judge of character. Aren't I?"
"I guess," Candice said, frowning. "But I'd hate for anyone to begin thinking I was nice. So don't spread it around. It would ruin my reputation. And Baron is . . . Baron. He's always going to be a Sad Sack. He is the consummate momma's boy. Although, at least he's gotten a job where he's not living at home all the time anymore. If you call selling water filters a job. But he's apparently making money at it; he's been able to go to more cons anyway. And being on the road gets him out from under Mom."
"He's on the road a lot?" Barbara asked, curiously.
"From what I hear," Candice said, shrugging. "He sells and installs water filters. He's from Ohio but his territory is in Virginia so he travels all over the state. Who knows, he might even cut the apron strings some day. But he's got good points. He really wants to be helpful; it's not just an act. If you need help, Baron is always right there pitching in. And a lot of the writers like him because if there's nobody else they recognize at the con, they can always talk to Baron. He just . . . doesn't have many social skills. Being willing to be social should count for something, I suppose. And I think if he didn't have fandom he'd probably hole up in a tower somewhere with a rifle."
"Do you know Sean very well?" Barb asked, filing the whole description away.
"Not much," Candice said, shrugging. "He's a former Marine. Lives in Virginia Beach and does something with the Internet. Goes to a lot of cons, especially ones with Duncan or Draxon. He'd had a live-in girlfriend for a while, but I guess they broke up."
"So do those two always hold court outside?" Barbara asked. "Duncan and Draxon, that is?"
"Pretty much," Candice replied. "There or in the Wharf Rat suite. But there aren't any smoking rooms in the hotel so they generally stay out and freeze. I couldn't hang so I left not long after you did. Especially with the snow. It's seriously snowing, isn't it?"
"Yes," Barb said with a sigh. "They're predicting over twenty inches just today. They say that it will clear by tomorrow and they can get the roads open, but right now we're stuck. You're a . . . Wharf Rat?" Barbara asked, changing the subject.
"That was a good slice of the Wharf Rats at the con," Candice said. "I suppose I am, but I don't really think of myself that way."
"And the gentleman on the ground with the notebook?" Barb asked. "The one with the minder, it looked like. It seemed like the group was . . . subtly ignoring him while including him I guess I'd say."
"Oh, that was David Krake," Candice said, laughing. "He's a big writer for Pier Books, been writing since the 1960s when, as he puts it, he escaped from the hell of being an attorney. He comes to the cons but he really doesn't like to be bothered when he's writing and he can get really . . . blunt. He writes hard-core military fiction, has for years. Former Marine, in Vietnam, so he knows what he's writing about. He's got degrees in history, ethnology and Greek. Recently, he's been trying to break into the fantasy market but his books are sort of limping along. I don't know why, they're really very good. He does a lot of research—he's known for that—and his fantasies are really based on historical characters and myth, mostly Sumerian. The last one sold well, though. Hit the New York Times list anyway so the big account buyers are going for it. From what I heard they more than trebled their sales on the last book, which is unusual. But it happens."
"You seem to know a lot about the people here," Barbara said, smiling.
"I go to plenty of cons. Not just ones that the Rats prefer. I won't say I know everybody in Southeastern fandom, but it's close."
"Selling books," Barb said, gesturing around.
"It's what I do," Candice said, smiling. "I don't work very well in offices; can't handle the politics. I've found I do better working for myself."
"There are a lot of Rats who were military," Barbara said. "Were you?"
"No," Candice replied, shrugging. "My husband is, though."
"Husband," Barb said, looking at her unberinged finger. "And you're sharing a room . . . ?"
"Plenty of people do that at cons," Candice replied. "It saves money. Don't read anything else into it. Although . . . there's other things that happen. But not with me," she added, smiling. "I've got a great husband."
Barbara nodded and looked at her watch suddenly.
"I'm going to wander," she said, smiling. "Talk later?"
"I'll look forward to it," Candice said. "Enjoy yourself."
"Hi, Sean," Barb said as she saw the Wharf Rat coming out of one of the panels.
"Hi," the young man said, smiling broadly. His gaze flicked down to her chest and then forced itself back upwards. "We met last night, right?"
"Yes," Barbara replied. "Where are you headed?"
"Nowhere right now," Sean admitted. "There's a panel in an hour I want to see on writing for art or market. I'm what I like to call an 'aspiring author' and most people call a 'wannabe.' " He said the latter with a deprecating grin and Barb had to admit that he was rather attractive if a bit young for her. Maybe she should sic Janea on him. Then again, maybe not.
"I'm sorry to hear about your break-up," Barbara said, sadly. She had subtly shifted him over to some padded benches by the door to the atrium and now sat down, waving to the seat beside her.
"I should have seen it coming," Sean admitted, sitting down and looking at the far wall. "We'd been spending less and less time together and she always wanted to know when I was going to be home. Thursday was my range night; there's an indoor range I go to and I usually went right from work to the range. But I'd forgotten to pack my guns so I went home to pick them up instead. And . . . there they were, right in our bed."
"I'm sorry," Barb said, honestly.
"I was, I thought, reasonably polite about it," Sean said, looking over at her, then down to her chest, then back at the wall. "I just nodded at them, went in the closet, got out my gun bag and went back out. So when I got home, the police were waiting for me. I explained the situation, they politely took my guns away and explained that I couldn't go back in my own apartment! I mean, it was my name on the lease! She moved out the next day and I moved back in."
"Did they give you the guns back?" Barbara asked, smiling slightly. The story had been told with a sort of blunt-instrument intensity that seemed to be natural rather than a result of the encounter. Sean was one of the most intense people she'd met in a very long time.
"Yep," Sean admitted. "But I had a hell of a job getting them clean; they'd been sitting uncleaned for a week."
"So what did you do then?" Barb asked.
"Went back to work," Sean said, shrugging. "I do remote installation on Internet lines. Mostly hardware work with some software troubleshooting. And the company does satellite uplink support, so I go out on those projects, too. It keeps me out of an office and mostly I'm working by myself. I don't handle office politics very well. I guess I don't really get along with most people."
"You seem to fit in here," Barbara said, her eyes narrowing.
"The Wharf Rats are sort of like an extended family," Sean said, waggling his head from side to side. "And they're mostly military oriented. They're used to . . . military types. Civilians get all excited when you just tell them what to do and expect it to get done. They used to call me General Marshall when I was working tech support. So I don't do tech support anymore. And being a field engineer pays better, anyway. Of course, it also meant I was out of town a lot. I'd guess that was one of the reasons . . . well . . ."
"Yes. Well." Barb said. "Do you mostly work in Virginia?"
"Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ohio," Sean said. "But things are looking up. I just got a promotion to shift supervisor so I'll be spending more time close to home. More office time, too, but I can handle that."
"How's the girlfriend front look?" Barbara asked, smiling.
"Well, it's looking up at the moment," Sean said, smiling at her with a slight humorous leer. "Just joking. I'm not really looking for anything serious. I thought Annette was it. Now I'm not sure I trust women. Honestly, the whole thing with Annette really has me . . . disliking most females rather intensely. So I'm keeping what few encounters I have with them . . . limited in scope." He looked over at her and shrugged. "You're an obvious exception. You seem like a very nice lady. I'd say you remind me of my mother, but my mom's a lot meaner. She and Dad were both Marines."
"Saying that a lady reminds you of your mom isn't a compliment, anyway," Barb pointed out acerbically.
"I didn't mean it that way!" Sean protested.
"I understand," Barbara said, laying a hand on his arm. She used the opportunity to get a quick read of him and wasn't sure what she got. He definitely had some very dark areas, but no sniff of necromancy. "Well, thanks for talking to me. I think I'll be seeing you at that panel. That's the one with K. Goldberg on it, right?"
"Yes," Sean said, standing up. "I should say thanks. This has helped in a way."
"I'm glad," Barb said, pausing. "Sean, women are as human and fallible as men. Some of them less so, some more so. Don't . . . put all women in the same category as your ex-girlfriend. In fact, don't be so quick to condemn her. Christ tells us to forgive. One of the reasons that he tells us to do so is that until we can forgive others, we cannot forgive ourselves. Until you can forgive Annette, and other women that have hurt you, it will be hard to let go of the darkness in your soul. And it's eating you up."
Sean looked at her for a moment and then nodded.
"You're a very odd lady, Barbara," Sean said, clearly puzzled.
"So I'm told."