Excerpt: An Unconventional Killing

The four-star hotel’s lobby teemed with a vast, undulating throng of people. Some wore costumes; some just stared at those who did. More than one face bore the glazed eyes of the panicked and overwhelmed; a few, the disinterest of someone dragged half-willingly along on the excursion. Among those stood one Colonel Harold Harper, USAF (Retired).

His wife, Helen – his high school sweetheart – called him Hap, which is what he went by as a youngster because people called his grandfather Harold Senior “Harold” and his father Harold II, “Hal”, while his co-workers in the military had used variously his pilot call sign “Noise”, Colonel Harper or just Harper depending on their rank. Outside of work, his closest friends from church dubbed him “Aitch” (H), while strangers unwittingly started with Harold until he knew them well enough to ask for something else like Hal since his dad had passed long ago.

A tall, not-as-slender-as-he-used-to-be, male pattern balding Gulf War veteran, Harper hid his buzzed short remaining hair under an Oakland Athletics baseball cap. A crisp, collared dark blue shirt hung open over an equally crisp but worn t-shirt emblazoned with the words “Air Force” and effectively hid a well muscled body and what his wife embarrassingly liked to call among her friends, his “buns of steel”, which his blue jeans might otherwise have accentuated. His burgeoning waistline, however, showed, and whenever that occurred to him, he sucked in his gut and determined to do laps in the hotel pool every day they were here.

The waistline of Hap’s sweetheart had expanded a little over the last thirty years as well, but he still found her breathtaking. Yes, the shoulder-length light brown hair had highlights to hide the grays, and the corners of her eyes crinkled pleasantly when she smiled. Helen had those parentheses on either side of her nose and mouth that she kept saying she hated. But the Parade Queen still looked regal to him even if she no longer wore size 8 (or anything close to it except in shoes). She still had long, incredibly sexy legs and a “six” (Air Force for bum) that merited his attention.

Though she stood only five foot seven (maybe only six or six and a half by now with ‘settling’) in stocking feet, most people thought Helen much taller, because she had incredible, almost military posture. She always attributed it to marrying a six foot four man and wanting to look well matched.

Harper pitied the gaggle of already-weary “guest service” people who worked at five different stations, trying to speed up the check-in process but making little progress in alleviating the burden the atrium bore with more patience than the crowd. He watched bellmen enter with arriving guests, amazingly penetrating the obstacle course formed by the mass of people. From his vantage point – standing head and shoulders taller than 90% of those in his immediate vicinity – he saw how the automatic sliding doors rarely stayed closed for more than seconds and how the revolving door slowed between users but only stopped completely for brief intervals.

Here and there, a squeal drew his attention, as people who “knew” each other from the internet met for the first time or as regular attendees found their online “friends” from previous gatherings reunited. Harper heard Helen talking with the attendee just ahead of them but didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. The other woman had commented on Helen’s t-shirt, which bore the logo of her favorite science fiction franchise. He had tuned out after they exchanged online usernames.
Looking up through the open center of the structure’s 38 floors, Harper wondered how many of those around him would use their rooms for more than a changing room. From what Helen had said, these fan fests could include scheduled activities from 8 in the morning to 8 (or later) in the evening and often turned into 24-hour-a-day parties. He never asked how much she had slept when she came home from one; from the way she dropped her bags in the entryway and slept for 10-12 hours straight after the last two, he guessed “not much”.

Finally, the lady – and Harper used the term loosely since she was dressed in the whole goth package up to and including black lipstick and nail polish – ahead of them stepped to the counter. He had his wife back…for the moment. He spotted the hotel staff person on the end handing the guests their keys and pointed Helen in that direction while he juggled the bags.

Harper had never understood Helen’s need to take the largest suitcase they had in the house to these things, but he had wisely kept the question to himself. He hadn’t earned the 25-year pin by raising too many of those “why women do things differently” quandaries. He reached the reception desk just as Helen handed over the credit card; he took the opportunity to relieve his aching right shoulder by setting everything down. He had to prop the big suitcase against the counter so the weight of his duffle didn’t cause it to tip over – which is what happened to one of the book bags as soon as he focused on the big bag. That earned him a concerned grimace from his wife, so Harper squatted down quickly to set it aright.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harper,” the young man said with an accent Harper immediately identified as from New Zealand. Not Australia, definitely a Kiwi. Sweat beaded on the fellow’s brow, no doubt a result of the extra weight he had put on recently. Harper could tell *that* because the collar of his shirt and his appeared about to strangle him, the buttons on his vest strained across his midsection and his jacket had no chance in hell of buttoning up. “Maurice”, as his name tag identified him, handed the Platinum VISA back to Helen with an attempt at a smile. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the moisture from his forehead while the computer did its thing. Harper suspected American fast food as the most likely culprit for Maurice’s weight gain; he sure blamed it for his own!

“You’re on the eighteenth floor which is an Executive level,” Maurice explained as he swiped two key cards. Putting them in a folder, he marked down the exact room number without voicing it; it pleased Harper that they didn’t announce your room number to the whole world any more. Maurice handed the cards to Helen with the further advice, “That includes access to the Executive Club on the tenth floor, for breakfast from 6 am to 9 am, snacks – fruit, cookies and soft drinks - available all day and cash bar from 4 pm to 10 pm. “Thank you for choosing us today. Please let us know if there’s anything more we can do to make your stay more enjoyable. Elevators are to your right. Do you require any assistance with your luggage?”

Helen looked up at Harper, and he shook his head. He had made it this far with her Zsa Zsa Gabor sized collection of suitcases, shoulder bags and laptop computer. Besides, they probably could find their room on their own before any bellman became available. Maurice had already turned his attention to the next guest when Harper grabbed the handle of his duffle and the handle of her foot locker sized rolling case. Now came obstacle course number two – finding and getting onto the elevators. Life was so much simpler in the military – besides packing light, airmen and junior officers always made a hole for a full bird Colonel. Then again, an airman would likely manage the bags *for* him if he were still in the Air Force.

At the elevator bank that served the 18th floor, a cadre of three pink-cheeked, sci-fi theme outfitted young women giggled and squeaked as one of the elevators’ doors slid shut. Harper could not believe his eyes or ears when Helen walked right up to them and talked to them. They all whispered conspiratorially for a minute, until the next car arrived and they all piled into it. Harper stood at the front of the windowed lift which had, supposedly, a magnificent view of the atrium level. He faced the door, poised for a quick exit. Unfortunately, just as the doors closed, a well-manicured hand triggered the safety mechanism and they reopened.

Not that Harper complained about the view before him. A tall, leggy woman with just past the shoulder length dark blonde or light brown hair pulled back in a braid, blue eyes and cheeks rosier than the teen girls’ apologized and asked if she would fit in. The way she glanced worriedly over her shoulder and clutched the little package from the atrium gift shop with those long, delicate fingers, his keen, military instinct shouted ‘urgent’. Harper’s feet stepped backward of their own volition, and she flashed a goofy, lopsided grin at him.

“Are you here for the convention?” she asked sweetly. Harper pegged the accent as eastern Canadian… perhaps with a hint of something else, and she looked vaguely familiar to him.

“My wife…” Harper jerked his head to where Helen stood somewhere behind him. The brunette stood on her tip toes to peek over his shoulder; he noted she was tall enough to do so. Four females inhaled deeply and in unison squealed the name of one of the actresses from Helen’s favorite television show – one of the main reasons they had come to this convention. Recognition dawned on him then, and he remembered Helen saying something about a new movie or something and credited the change in hairstyle to that. To his shock, though, the actress responded in kind!

“Helen! How *are* you?”

Harper remembered a letter he had received in Iraq from his wife about three years before, telling him about a convention she had attended. Helen had met up for the first time with several ladies from one of her online fan groups; she had blathered on and on about meeting this gal, how nice she was and how she had paid such close attention to each attendee as they came up to meet here for a photo op or autograph. But that the actress remembered Helen from more than two years ago? Harper had to admit, even if only to himself, that surprised him. Astounded, more like. She definitely exuded a certain charm, and as Helen had said of her, she seemed really down to earth as well.

When the elevator car settled to a stop at their floor, Harper excused himself and began to shift the bags so he could exit. The actress stepped out to give him room and even reached out to help when the duffle hit the door on the way out and tried to fall. Not the behavior he might have expected from a big TV star, and he gave her a thankful grin and brief nod of acknowledgement as the doors closed between them after she had stepped back inside. He received a brilliant smile in return.

Fortunately, their room lay just ahead and to the right. From what Helen had said after previous cons, sometimes the convoluted and often mazelike hike to and from her room at some of these things provided all the exercise she needed for the day. By the time he had all the bags inside and the door closed and security latch flipped over, Helen had inspected the bathroom, tossed her purse on the nightstand and slipped out of her shoes.

Next item on the agenda? Hooking up her lifeline – the laptop – and grumbling about a four star hotel not offering free internet access much less free WiFi. Harper didn’t ask how much, and Helen didn’t volunteer the information. He counted the cost definitely worth it; a wife on internet withdrawal was not a pretty sight. He did find it curious that while the computer and internet had kept them connected while he was deployed, it easily had the opposite effect when he came home.

“What were you and those girls talking about?”

“What, hon?”

Harper knew he still didn’t have her full attention yet, so he waited for her to look up before answering, “Those girls…at the elevator. What were you talking about with them?”

“Oh, that. They said they had been waiting for an elevator – well, they said “lift” cuz they’re from England – for a while, but when it came, one of the handlers for a convention guest asked if they wouldn’t mind waiting for the next one so he could take the convention guest and his family up to their room. They were squeeing over seeing the actor’s new baby.” Harper read her disappointment at missing that opportunity in the deep sigh that followed her statement.

“Does that happen often?” Harper responded to her squint and tilted head with, “Attendees having to wait for another elevator because of the actors?”

“Oh, that. No…depending on what floor they're on, we’ll probably share one with several during the con. Sometimes the handlers – or “guest liaisons” as they may call them – get a little proprietary, but some of the actors love those little minutes of interaction because photo ops and autographs are often pretty rushed in order to get everyone through. If the actors, especially the leads or really popular ones, get waylaid in the hall, though, a crowd can grow really quickly. That was likely it – or perhaps with the baby they had a great deal of luggage.”

Harper surveyed her pile and looked back at the love of his life.

“Yes, well, you know I like to be prepared. And costumes take extra room.”

“Costumes?” He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and let out a sigh which prompted a huge grin to take over Helen’s face. He loved Helen’s smile, but her grin always hinted at more to come.

“Not you, dear. But I did bring a couple just in case. They have a costume parade and competition, and I was thinking about entering…maybe.”

Harper rolled his eyes and flopped back on the bed, his arms flying out to either side. He didn’t normally sit on a rack, bed, other than in preparation for sleeping – years of military training – but Helen occupied the desk chair. The only other seating was an overstuffed armchair and ottoman next to the window; he would have had to squeeze between Helen and the bed to reach those. That would have diminished the impact.

“Oh, Hap, quit being so dramatic. Leave that to the actors, will you?”

“Come join me on this bed and give me something else to do, and I’ll consider it.” Harper raised his head up off the bed and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.