More Bitter Than Death: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,5

only a few people at this conference who were there for that last one, so many years ago, and I was thankful for that. I wouldn’t have nearly the same audience, and not everyone would remember, and of those who did, very few would be expecting me to freak out. That was the good news.

“He’s here. So what? I haven’t thought about him for a long time, not until recently, so don’t you think about it either.” I put on a braver face than I felt and infused enough enthusiasm into my words to be convincing, and then slung my bag over my shoulder. “You ready there, gorgeous, or what?”

“Or what.” She packed up her makeup, which she’d been able to spread far over the vanity in a remarkably short period of time. “Come on, let’s get this eulogy over with.”

I had to pause there. “Doesn’t it seem a little hypocritical of us? Presenting these papers when we don’t even like Garrison?”

Carla shrugged and threw the lipstick in last. “It’s tradition. Bastard gets old enough, you have a party for him.”

I frowned at my reflection. “Yeah, well, nothing says we have to perpetuate it. I finally decided that I could do the presentation because he’s made genuine contributions to the field. But I can’t stand him.”

“No one says you have to kiss him, Em. Now if you’re done rationalizing…?”

“Let’s go.”

We met up with the rest of the panel backstage. Carla had a quick look around. “Where the hell is Garrison? The man is late for his own party.”

I spied Scott Tomberg, who was shaking a pen like it was an old-fashioned mercury thermometer. Carla fussed and organized things when she was upset, but pen abuse was Scott’s barometer. “Dr. Tomberg.” I gave him a hug, and though he was about my age, addressed him by his formal title just to give him a cheap thrill. What are old friends for?

“Dr. Fielding.” Scott was a small caveman with big hands, wide shoulders, and a square head on a thick, muscled neck; when he hugged me back, it was like being hugged by a tank. Old-fashioned glasses, black plastic over the brow with silver earpieces, helped jazz up his look, which was also modernized with a crew cut, mostly pepper and lots of salt at the temples. He was still pretty fit, and wearing what he always wore, jeans and a button-down shirt, but had added a navy blazer for the occasion.

“And how are we today?” I asked.

“We are sucky,” he said, frowning hugely. “Our guest of honor is nowhere to be seen—he got in late last night, like most of us. He went on the tour out to your site?”

I nodded. “I bundled him back onto the bus myself, so he’s somewhere around here.”

He flicked the pen button a couple more times. “Well, there’s that. Now that you and Carla are here, we just have to hunt him down. I sent someone up to his room—he wasn’t answering the phone. To top it off, the airline lost my luggage yesterday. I’ve been wearing the same pair of shorts for two days now, since I left home yesterday.”

I made a face. “And that is officially more information than I needed. Did you ask someone if they could spare a pair for you?”

“I’m not going to wear someone else’s underwear!” Then he looked sheepish. “No one here’s going to have anything that wouldn’t look like a thong on me. There wasn’t a pair that might fit to be had, for love or money.”

“And with whom have you been trying the love?” I said.

Scott’s face lightened up. “There he is now!”

I looked where Scott was looking. “You tried to borrow underpants from Garrison? You’re a better man than I—”

But I didn’t get to finish the line because Scott had all but fled in his haste to greet his tardy guest of honor.

Garrison was looking a bit dazed, a stewing chicken of a man whose suit hung off him. He had a nose so sharp you could cut cake with it. Petra Williams, who brought him down, lingered by his side. She and Scott conferred for a moment and nodded. Garrison seemed to be shaking off his confusion, and he put his hands up in protest—no, he was fine, he would go on, I imagined he was saying.

I stiffened when he batted at Petra, a stout little porcelain doll with Dorothy Parker bangs and a bun. She had to stand on tiptoe to take off