8 Antiques Con by Barbara Allan Page B

down the sleeves. While Alice’s makeup was minimal, the Queen’s was garish—bright blue eye shadow, rose-colored circles on each cheek, and crimson lipstick in the shape of a small heart on her lips. A tiny gold crown was perched on her head, secured by the top bun of a blood-red wig.
    I approached the pair.
    “Ah . . . hi,” I said. “Cool costumes.”
    Alice said, “Thanks,” and the Queen echoed her. Both were a little wary.
    “How would you like to make some money?” I asked, no more hysterical than somebody who just fell out of a hot air balloon. “Both of you?”
    Comics fans could always use more cash at a convention, right?
    They looked at each other, then back at me.
    “What do you have in mind?” asked the Queen.
    “And how much money?” queried Alice. “Cute dog, by the way.”
    “Thanks!”
    And I explained our predicament with the press, and outlined my plan. Then we negotiated the price for a temporary rental of their costumes, and their aid in applying that distinctive makeup.
    “It’ll be fun,” I said.
    “Fifty,” the Queen said.
    “Each,” Alice said.
    What I wanted to say was, “Off with your heads!”
    What I did say was, “Sounds fair.”
    Ten minutes later, Mother—dressed (and made up) as the Queen, and myself as Alice, with Sushi still in her front pack, passing (I hoped) as the Cheshire Cat—sailed out of the bathroom and right past the milling media.
    Soon we were up on level C, in the ladies’ room by the Gold Ballroom, where two girls in Brandy and Mother costumes traded their clothing back to us for Alice and the Queen. I washed off the Alice makeup, but I caught Mother admiring herself as the Queen for several moments before doing the same. It did suit her.
    We stood just outside the ladies’ room.
    A sheepish Mother said, “I’m afraid I did make a wrong decision back there, holding that impromptu press conference.”
    “You think?”
    “Perhaps I’d better make myself scarce for a while.”
    “Well, you can’t go back to the dealers’ room,” I said, adjusting Sushi in the baby sling, “and our suite is off-limits till four p.m. Maybe you could slip into a panel and just sit there. And mind your own business?”
    Mother’s eyes were moving behind the magnifying lenses, rolling around like somebody trying out a new pair of glass eyes. “No, I think I’ll go off by myself, if you don’t mind. If you can get along without me for the rest of the day.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “This might be just the opportunity to look up some old thespian pals from my theater days.”
    “Lucky them.”
    “There you go again, Debbie Downer. I’ll be happy to take a break from that bad attitude of yours!”
    “I still need a nap, and you turned our room into an interrogation booth.”
    “Find yourself a quiet corner, dear, and just rest a while. Take a cue from Sushi—she can sleep anywhere.”
    Something told me I shouldn’t let her go off by herself—whether that was concern or apprehension, I couldn’t tell you. “What if I need to get in touch with you?”
    “Call my cell.”
    “You don’t have a coat—it’s pretty cold out.”
    “Why, I’ll just whip up a hot flash, dear.”
    She still had them at her age. Which meant I probably had that to look forward to.
    Lucky me.
    “Toodles,” Mother said, heading toward the elevators.
    And then, there among costumed comic book fans and nerds of every variety, the world seemed suddenly less strange, and considerably less interesting.
    “Well, Soosh,” I said, scratching her furry head, “what shall we do with ourselves, without Mother to entertain us?”
    I couldn’t risk going back to the dealers’ room, either—I’d been seen with Mother, and I’d had some notoriety of my own in that mess surrounding Peggy Sue and Senator Clark (my father, by the way) (do try to keep up)—nor did I feel like sitting through any of the ongoing panels in meeting rooms on the sixth floor. The evolving nature of the