Free Con Job by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

I can talk until Vulcans are called. What’s up?”
    “You knew about arsenic having a garlic smell.”
    She nodded. “I read a lot of old cozy mysteries, even though some of them have a really skewed and outdated view on classism—”
    “Yeah, but what I need to know is, how does one get arsenic poisoning?”
    “In old cozy days? It was everywhere, used as a pesticide. Anybody could buy it. Nowadays it’s harder to come by. Because, you know, it’s toxic.”
    The red shirts released their poses and moved to join the onlookers. Someone called directions, and several Captain Kirks, Mr. Spocks, two Uhuras, three Mr. Sulus, and a Dr. McCoy assembled and stood at attention.
    “Hang on,” Jessica said, “lemme grab a shot of this.” She aligned the crew in her phone’s screen and snapped a couple of pics.
    The conservatory featured lots of smaller gathering areas beneath one angled roof, incompletely separated by planters and couches in the ubiquitous sour colors of convention center furniture. The greenery did not adequately screen the next group photoshoot, featuring dozens of colorfully anthropomorphic ponies and interpretations.
    “No idea on how someone would get it?” Jacob pressed. “Arsenic?”
    “I presume you can get it somewhere, of course. Chemical supply companies, chemistry labs, really old warehouses full of illegal pesticides? Other than that, no, I’ve got nothing.”
    A photographer, squatting and looking into his bulky camera, shook his head. “We’ve got to change angles; it’s like the Enterprise command is getting stalked by My Little Ponies . Everyone shift to your right.”
    The cosplayers obediently shifted to one side, laughing as they glanced back at the faux ponies.
    Jacob shook his head. “Okay, thanks anyway.”
    He left Jessica with the Star Trek crowd and started for the food court. It was more than a little unnerving to enter the ring of fast food options — and was it his imagination, or did the court seem less over-crowded than usual? — but his stomach was growling and he had long hours yet ahead of him; he’d never make it without eating.
    He looked around the food court and thought of Dead-Laura’s fallen, twisted body and garlicky odor.
    Vince had mentioned food trucks, and those were wholly separate from the hotel. And they wouldn’t have been on site yet when Valerie ingested a fatal dose of arsenic this morning, so she couldn’t have gotten it from any of them.
    He consulted the mobile app and found the specified side street outside the convention space. He turned and headed for the doors.

    A row of parked food trucks stretched outside the hotel, hawking everything from barbecue sandwiches to cupcakes to vegan stuffed potatoes. Jacob got in line at a pasta truck, perusing the blackboard menu. Someone had been having some fun tailoring the truck’s offerings for the weekend crowd: The Full-Melty Alchemist. The Trouble with Dribbles Minestrone. Second Breakfast Egg Sandwich. Witch Hunter Ramen. Arroz Khan Pollo. To Serve Manicotti. Spaghetti and Spaceballs. Dalek-table Chocolate Brownie.
    Behind him, a young man in full elven armor got in line. Jacob turned and gave him a nod. “Nice! First movie?”
    “Helm’s Deep, actually.”
    “Looks good.”
    “Looks stupid,” said a man behind him. “What are you supposed to be, some sort of dress-up warrior? Why are you in a skirt?” He frowned. “Are these things feathers or leaves or what?” He plucked at the armor on the elf’s shoulders.
    “Please don’t,” said the elven archer, politely but shortly, as he stepped toward Jacob.
    “What? I wasn’t doing nothing.” But he sneered as he shifted his weight forward.
    There wasn’t much room for Jacob to advance in the line, and he edged sideways to give the elf room to move. The man was facing them both, waiting in line but somehow more intent, and beside him stood a grinning friend. Both were wearing NFL jerseys, and both were a head taller than