An Unconventional Murder Read Online Free Page B

job," Upton said. "In fact--"
    Rena Oberhaus suddenly appeared beside him at the podium.
    "Time to wrap up?"
    "It is."
    Upton detected an unmistakable shakiness in her voice. He raised a questioning brow,
but she turned her attention back to the audience. "Let's thank Mr. Upton and Mr. Fontaine."
    The hundred and one spectators clapped politely and began gathering up their
belongings. A few sidled up to Upton, eager to ask questions. He answered each one of them,
making a special effort not to sound patronizing when one young man in a Metallica sweatshirt
and faded black jeans posed a particularly naive question. But Upton's eyes kept darting back
toward Rena who stood tensely in the corner of the room, her face furrowed with a look of deep
concern.
    Something was obviously wrong.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Upton disengaged himself from the man in the Metallica sweatshirt and hurried over to
Rena. There were still half a dozen people in the room, some of whom were waiting to talk to
Royce Fontaine.
    "Rena, are you okay?"
    She looked as if she were going to burst into tears. "Can we go somewhere and
talk?"
    "Of course." There were half a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but her expression told
him to wait until they had reached a safe harbor.
    The sounds of the convention faded as she steered him down a long hallway that,
according to the sign posted on the wall, led to the exercise room, sauna and indoor swimming
pool.
    She stopped abruptly in front of the glass doors outside the pool area. "There's a woman
here at the hotel, making all sorts of threats against the CFWA."
    "Threats?" he demanded. "What sort of threats? Shall we call the police?"
    "No, no, it's nothing like that. She cornered me out in the hallway and, boy, did she give
me an earful!"
    "About what?"
    "Her entry in last year's CFWA fiction writing contest."
    "Last year's contest? For crying out loud! She's mad because she didn't win? Or because
she received an unkind critique? Or--"
    "Art, it's nothing like that. She didn't win, but that's not what she's upset about. She
claims that someone in the CFWA stole her story idea."
    "She claims what?"
    "Someone stole her story. She says that the newest book of one of the CFWA members
is really her book."
    Upton grimaced. "I don't like the sound of that. Plagiarism is a serious matter. So who is
she accusing?"
    "Someone named Theia Rand. I don't think I've ever met her, but--"
    "Theia Rand? Are you serious?"
    "Do you know who she is?"
    "Of course, I do. It's a pseudonym. And it belongs to one of the last people I'd ever
suspect of stealing someone else's story."
    "This woman is adamant about it. She repeated the name three times. Was this Theia
Rand one of the judges in last year's contest?"
    Upton paused to think. "I don't know. I think Suzanne Gibbons-Powers served as the
contest chairperson last year. She ought to remember who the judges were."
    "She should," Rena observed dryly. "She probably slept with every one of them."
    Upton eyed her disapprovingly. "Rena, I'm shocked!"
    She touched his arm imploringly. "Please don't tell--"
    He interrupted sternly, "First of all, I'd never tell anyone what another CFWA member
said about her. Secondly," he added in a lighter tone, "knowing GP, she'd take it as a
complement."
    Rena patted his arm. "Thank you. God, I can't believe I said that. So what do I do about
the woman who claims we conspired to steal her book?"
    Assuming his most presidential air, Upton said, "If you'll point her out to me, I'll have a
chat with her. Maybe I can settle her down a bit. I don't want her ruining my convention."
    "I'd really appreciate it. She was getting awfully aggressive."
    "I would too, if I thought someone had stolen my book."
    Rena frowned and bit her lip. "This convention sure isn't turning out the way I expected.
What else could possibly go wrong?"
    "Oh," said Upton in a fatherly tone, "Everything's just fine. People don't remember the
little things that go awry. The real point of these