After tucking us into an alcove under the stairs, I check Stories. Chris was at a panel called “The Wicked World of Weston” twenty minutes ago. I spot a lone woman at a folding table with a black tablecloth thrown over it about a dozen yards away. Thirtysomething, she sports shoulder-length dark-brown hair with a tasteful teal underlayer, a black con shirt, and a bored expression. There’s no missing the slew of paraphernalia on the table—badges, lanyards, and brochures—which I’m hoping also includes a schedule and map. And you can’t miss the sign:

BADGES REQUIRED TO ACCESS CON SPACES. WE WILL CHECK. YES, WE MEAN YOU.

Time for a charm offensive.

I saunter up to the table and read the woman’s badge.

Hi, my name is:

Diana Martinez

@hrhweston

I sense Ben following behind.

“Hi, Diana! I’m not registered, but I’m hoping you can help me?”

Diana turns from listless to on guard. She knows I’m about to bullshit her. Time to bring out the big guns. “I’m Maura’s granddaughter, and this is her assistant.” I indicate Ben, but when I turn to him, I see he’s hesitating. None of that. We have to play happy couple. Two perfectly normal-looking and Maura-connected people are better than one.

I link our arms and pull him level with me. “We were hoping we could get a copy of the con schedule for her?”

Diana’s spine straightens, and her eyes spark wide. “Oh my God, hi! Sorry I was grumpy. We’ve had a few reporters this morning, nosing in about…well.” She jerks her head in Deputy Shields’s direction. The young deputy is giggling with delight at something Gabriel’s said. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“What’s going on with that?” I ask instead, playing dumb. “Why are the cops here, I mean. I understand a girl died.” Understatement of the year.

Diana leans in conspiratorially. “I don’t know why exactly, but they got here about an hour ago, demanding our registration records and to interview attendees. They’re waiting for the hotel to provide an interview room, and our head of con is trying to track down our lawyer so we can cover our asses.”

Aha! I may have my chance with Chris after all, thanks to the con slowing them down and demanding a consult with a lawyer. The sheriff must have forgotten: These people literally devour crime fiction. They’re not stupid. And perhaps one of them is too smart.

“Oh wow,” I say. “So about that schedule?”

“Oh, yes! Let me get that for you!” She reaches down into the hidden recesses under the table and hands me a whole-ass program book. I thumb through it and am instantly overwhelmed.

“Actually, maybe you can just tell me where to go. I’m looking for someone at ‘The Wicked World of Weston’ panel? For Maura,” I add hastily.