I thumbed through more pages and made a quick calculation. There had to be at least a hundred patent application forms in Dillon’s huge three-ring binder. But the binder had been left open in the employment agreement section, so I wondered if Midge had even seen all the patent applications with Dillon’s name as owner/inventor. There was no way of knowing the answer, unless we tracked her down and simply asked her.
According to Niall, though, Midge had known that Dillon had cheated her on at least one patent. She had accused him that night on the patio when Niall overheard them arguing. We just didn’t know if she had seen all of these other different patents he had applied for that rightfully belonged to her, as well as all the other inventors at the conference.
Midge was a brilliant woman and probably could’ve applied for her own patents. But she must have gone to Rafe and Dillon for funding, and Dillon had offered to help her with the patent applications.
I looked around the suite. What else could Midge have been looking for in here? There was always the possibility that she hadn’t even seen the binder. Maybe she’d been scrounging for money, although I couldn’t picture Dillon Charles leaving even a dime lying around. And I couldn’t picture Midge having to break into a hotel room in search of loose change.
Another weird thought occurred to me. Had she and Dillon been having an affair? Maybe he had taken something personal that belonged to her and she had been looking for that.
She was certainly having an affair with Sketch Horn. Why not Dillon as well?
I was grasping at straws again. I needed to apply Occam’s razor to this dilemma: the simplest solution tended to be the best one.
On the other hand, who said that Occam’s razor was always the way to go?
I shook my head. Why was I complicating things? We had seen Midge sneaking out of Dillon’s room with our own eyes just a few minutes ago. And now here was this open binder. Chances were pretty good that Midge had gone through it and removed a document or two.
But how had Midge known that these documents would be in Dillon’s hotel room? Had someone told her that the binder was here? Someone who had snuck in here before Midge? The binder shouldn’t have been in here. That much was for sure. It should have been kept in a locked file drawer in Dillon’s office somewhere in Silicon Valley.
Had others been sneaking into Dillon’s room to find their documents? Why not? I was perfectly willing to think the worst of Dillon, so I would bet that there was more than one set of fingerprints in here that didn’t belong to that man. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that there were at least a dozen conference attendees who had a darn good motive for revenge, if not cold-blooded murder.
My mind was starting to take off on yet another tangent so I forced myself to shut it down and turned to Mac. “I think we should give Rafe a call.”
“Maybe we should call Eric, too.”
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But Rafe needs to know that Dillon had these confidential documents in his hotel room and that some people are managing to get inside here without benefit of a key.”
“People like us, you mean?”
“Well, yes,” I said with a smile. “And others.”
“Like Midge,” he added. “Who else might be tempted to break in?”
“Dr. Larsson, Julian Reedy, Wesley Mycroft, and anyone else whose name is in here.” I let the notebook pages flutter down. “You know, I’ll bet if we cross-checked the inventions on these patent applications with the names of the conference attendees who’re applying for grants, we’d find a heck of a lot more names that match up.”
“I’m not about to take that bet,” Mac said. “Because I think you’re right. And that’s unfortunate for Rafe.”
“Yeah.” I pressed the rings together and closed the notebook. “The number of people who might be trying to sabotage the conference is growing by the minute. And one of those people took it even further and killed Dillon.”
“Don’t forget that Rafe is a target, too,” he said. “That is, if you believe that the shooter in the tower was aiming at him.”
“But what if they were aiming at Marigold?”
Mac scowled. “If they shot Marigold, they would be hurting Rafe on a whole different level.”
Just for a moment, I considered what might have happened if Marigold hadn’t chosen just the right second to get up and go to the kitchen. She could have been killed. And that thought sent a shudder up my spine that had me pushing the whole idea out of my mind completely. I couldn’t even fathom a world without Marigold in it.
“That would be awful,” I murmured. “On any level.”
“We should get out of here,” Mac said. “We’ll take the binder with us and give it to Rafe—and tell him he should hand it over to Eric.”
“Right. Because even though it contains confidential company documents, it also contains some big fat motives for murder, which the police may not have realized when they searched the room before. They probably didn’t know who truly came up with these inventions. As far as they knew, these patent applications were legit.”
“Right. That binder shouldn’t be sitting here in this room where anyone and their mother could sneak in.”
“We’re not anyone,” I said defensively.
He smiled. “I wasn’t talking about us. But I’m wondering if someone else could get in by, you know, bribing the housekeeping staff.”
I frowned. “The hotel staff here is probably a lot more honest than some of the guests.”
“No doubt about that.”
I picked up the unwieldy binder. “This thing is heavy.”
“I’ll carry it.” He took it easily. “Let’s go.”
I started for the door.
“Are we going to Wesley’s room now?” he asked.
I stopped. “Shoot. I forgot all about him. But yeah. Let’s go find him.”
“We can’t go to his room holding this huge binder.”
“You’re right.” I stared at the notebook. “Especially since some of those patent forms should have his name on them.”
“Okay, we’ll lock it up in the car. And then let’s check out the bar before we try his hotel room.”
I grabbed the door handle. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find him sitting there drinking a beer.”
“Or maybe we’ll run into Midge.”
I nodded. “We know she’s here somewhere.”
“And if we can’t find any of them in the hotel, I say we grab our own beers and figure out what to do next.”
I smiled. “Best idea today.”
After securely locking the binder in the trunk of Mac’s car, we strolled back to the bar.
“Mac! Hey, buddy!”
We both whipped around and saw the grinning face of Sketch Horn. He was sitting in a booth, holding up a pilsner glass half filled with beer.
“Join me,” he called out, loudly enough for everyone in the bar to hear.
Mac was mumbling under his breath. It wouldn’t be nice to repeat the words I heard him say.
I slipped my arm through his and whispered, “We only have to stay for a minute. Come on.”
But before we could take another step toward Sketch, I saw Midge walk into the bar from the lobby entrance.
“This could be interesting,” Mac said.
I wasn’t surprised when Midge headed straight for Sketch’s booth. He wore a broad grin as he watched her approach and slide into the booth until she was squeezed up against him. She wrapped both arms around his neck and gave him a big, noisy kiss.
Ugh, I thought. There was just no accounting for taste. Or subtlety.
“Uh-oh.” Mac nudged me. “Check this out.”
From the door on the opposite side of the room, I saw another woman stalk into the bar.
“That’s his wife,” Mac explained.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Mac tried to stifle a grin, but it didn’t work.
“Oh dear.”
Sketch’s wife crossed the room and stood in front of his table. She wore impeccably tailored taupe trousers and a rich silk jacket that looked like haute couture, but what did I know? Her shoes were fabulous, if painful: five-inch heels with tiny little straps that looked like they could snap in a heartbeat. Her silky blond hair was brushed back in a ponytail. To put it bluntly, Sketch Horn’s wife was drop-dead gorgeous.
Midge, on the other hand, was cute and lively. But Mrs. Sketch Horn was way out of everyone’s league.
Mac and I moved a few feet to the left in order to get a front-row view of the drama that was unfolding before us.
Sketch’s handsome face was drained of all color and his eyes were as big as bread plates. “Honey!” he exclaimed, his voice a little shaky.
“Her name is Honey, by the way,” Mac whispered.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Honey asked, her fists resting on her hips.
“I was, uh, just interviewing Midge, you know, for the next book.”
“Interviewing,” his wife said sarcastically. She sent a slow, up-and-down look over Midge, then dismissed her. “Is that what the kids are calling it?”
“Honey, you sound angry,” Sketch said gently. “Is your blood sugar dipping?”
Mac snorted quietly and I could not believe that Sketch was being so stupid. But then, I’d seen him in action on his panel, and maybe yes, he really was that clueless.
“No, you dolt. My blood sugar is fine. It’s you who’s dipping. And not for the first time. I’ve been coming with you to these conferences for years, and while I sit in the room and write, you play your little games with your little floozies.”
“Honey! No way would I do that to you. I love you.”
“You love me? How stupid do you think I am?” she asked dryly, then flicked her chin in Midge’s direction. “Maybe you should explain to this floozy that you’re married to me.”
“That’s Dr. Floozy to you,” Midge said with a brazen smile.
“Well, Doctor,” the wife said, folding her arms across her chest. “You can give all the ‘interviews’ you want to this clown, but here’s a clue for you. Sketch won’t be quoting your golden thoughts in the next book and he won’t be giving you any credit, either.”
“Shows you what you know,” Midge said haughtily. “He’s promised to dedicate the next book to me.”
“That’s adorable,” Honey crooned, with a smile letting Midge know that she was just as big a dolt as Sketch. “But it’s just not going to happen because, to be frank, the man can barely read, let alone type.”
“Now, Honey,” Sketch started, glancing around nervously.
She ignored him and continued to glare at Midge. “I write the Sketch Horn books. Not him. He’s nothing but a pretty face.”
“Not that pretty,” Mac grumbled.
I smothered a laugh.
Midge’s mouth fell open. “What are you saying?”
“I think you heard me,” Honey said.
Midge blinked so rapidly that I thought she might faint. “You . . . you’re Sketch Horn?”
“You poor pathetic thing.” There was no humor in Honey’s rasping laugh. “There’s no such person as Sketch Horn. The clown sitting next to you? His name is Marv Skolnick. And the rest of the bio is fake, too. We live in a suburb of Omaha, Nebraska, not on a sixty-foot sailboat in beautiful Gig Harbor, Washington. He’s never been in the Army, either. He’s a substitute teacher, but he just can’t seem to keep a job because of his sick addiction to Call of Duty.”
“You’re joking.” Midge hissed the word. But clearly she believed Honey, because the looks she was shooting Sketch should have set him on fire.
“I wish I was.” Honey turned to Sketch. “And you. I’m sick of keeping you afloat while you treat me like yesterday’s garbage. Over and over again. You know, I can understand you’re too much of an idiot to be faithful, but I just can’t figure out what these bimbos see in you.”
“But—”
“No more buts.” She spat the words out. “The divorce papers will be served on you tomorrow morning. As far as the world knows, Sketch Horn will be devoting himself to writing and won’t have any more time for conferences or interviews. Good luck making a living off of Call of Duty.”
“But, honey pie,” he cried.
“You’re making me nauseous, Marv.” Honey wiggled her fingers in a wave. “Have fun, you two.”
She swiveled on the toes of her elegant high-heeled shoes and walked out of the bar.
“Honey’s got some moves,” Mac murmured.
“I’ll say.” I really had to admire Honey’s style. She’d taken care of a terrible husband and his floozy all in one smooth move. I watched Midge scoot out of the booth and slink out of the bar. Sketch—or Marv—looked as if he was ready to cry.
I turned to Mac. “Um, we need to go, too.”
“Right-o.”
We hurried out of the bar and sat down at a patio table near the pool.
A waiter hurried over and we ordered two beers on tap.
When he left, Mac sat back and beamed with pleasure. “Best day ever.”
I chuckled. “That’s sick.”
“I know.” But he laughed until he was holding his stomach. “Seeing old Marv brought low had to be the highlight of this conference. Marv. Seriously?” Shaking his head, he laughed even harder. After a few more seconds, his laughter faded. “It’s about time he got his comeuppance. I wonder if Honey was just waiting for this one last straw or if something happened this week to cause her to strike out at him.”
“You think she’s always known?”
He frowned, thinking about it. “If she’s like most working writers I know, she’s buried in a book half the time and oblivious to everything else. But if she’s been coming to conferences with him, she must have been seeing the way he carries on. These conferences are like a small town.”
I could relate to that analogy. The gossip grapevine in Lighthouse Cove was legendary. “So even if Honey didn’t see it with her own eyes, she would hear the rumors.”
“There are always rumors.”
The waiter was back with our drinks. He set them on the table with a small bowl of snack mix.
After the first sip, I sighed. “What’s the story with Midge? I don’t know her at all, but she seems too smart to have gotten involved with someone like Sketch slash Marv.” I shook my head.
Mac stared into his beer. “She doesn’t come out of this looking too good.”
“Just now she sounded like a . . . well, to use Honey’s word for it, a floozy.” I frowned. “The first time he opened his mouth to talk, she should’ve been warned. He’s such a blowhard.”
Mac shook his head. “Sketch Horn strikes again.” He paused, then added, “I mean Marv.”
Ten minutes later we finished our drinks and were about to stand up and leave. But at that very moment, Midge walked out to the patio.
“Hey, Midge.” Mac waved. “Come join us.”
“Are you kidding?” I muttered.
“I want to hear what she says,” Mac whispered. “Let’s get the story from the other side.”
I couldn’t blame him. I wanted to hear the floozy’s side of the story, too.
Midge looked reluctant, but then finally relented and walked over to our table. “You were standing right there, so I don’t have to tell you what happened.”
“No, you don’t have to tell us,” I said, pushing out the extra chair. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” But she didn’t sound grateful. She sounded suspicious.
“That was a pretty weird scene,” I said lightly. “Who knew Sketch didn’t really write his own books?”
“His name isn’t even Sketch,” Midge said, annoyed, but also a little dazed. “What are you drinking?”
“Beer. And we were just going to order another round.” Mac raised his hand to signal the waiter, who came running over. We ordered another round, plus a beer for Midge.
“Have you met Sketch before?” Mac asked in all innocence.
“No, this conference is the first time. He really pulled a number on me. I thought he was a famous author with years of experience as an Army Ranger. And he’s so good-looking.” She slumped against her seat. “Now I find out he’s a total fake.”
“Yeah, sounds like it.”
“We were going to collaborate on his next book,” she said wistfully. “I have this idea for a plot where sandcastle worms cause the infrastructure of the West Coast to collapse into the ocean. Sketch thought it was really cool.”
“Sounds pretty cool to me,” Mac said and I stared at him. I sincerely hoped he was just being nice.
She eyed him cautiously. “Would you be interested in collaborating on the story?”
“It’s a fine offer, but no. I work alone.”
Midge wasn’t willing to let it go so easily. “It’s my idea, but I would be willing to give you twenty percent if you’d do the writing.”
“Wow, twenty percent,” he mused, and shook his head. “It’s tempting, but no. Sorry, Midge. But good luck with it.”
I sat forward in my chair. “You should write it yourself, Midge.”
Her shoulders drooped. “I’m not a writer.”
“But you could be,” Mac said, upbeat as usual. “You have a story to tell. Just sit down at the computer and go to it.”
He was starting to sound like a motivational speaker. Frankly, I was beginning to think Midge didn’t deserve his attention, but Mac couldn’t help it. He was just a good guy.
“I could never do that,” she protested.
“Sure you could. All you have to do is sit down and start typing,” he said. “And then of course you’ll need to send it to agents and editors and wait for a few hundred rejection letters and then you restructure the whole story and then start the process all over again. And if you don’t give up, you might eventually publish the book.”
Midge groaned. “I’ll be dead by then.”
“Or you could self-publish,” he said. “That’s a viable road to publication. Think about it.”
She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I was really hoping for Sketch’s participation.”
“He lied to you,” I said flatly. “He’s a liar and a cheat.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that until just now,” she insisted. She thought about it for a moment, though, and finally relented. “Okay, yeah, maybe he told me a few lies, but . . . oh God.” She buried her face in her hands. “I just wanted so badly to believe him. Never mind. I’m an idiot. He’s a total liar and a cheat.”
“You’ll get over it,” I said. “But on another topic, what were you doing inside Dillon Charles’s hotel room a little while ago?”
She stared at me in stunned silence.
“Were you looking for something?” I prompted. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.” Except for five or six of my closest friends and the police, I thought.
“I um, I wasn’t, um . . .”
“We saw you coming out of his room, Midge,” Mac said quietly.
“This is not my best moment,” she whispered, and another tear fell from her eyes. “Heck. Not my best week.”
“Just tell us, Midge,” I urged.
Scowling now, she said, “I suppose there’s no point in keeping it secret.”
“Tell us what happened.”
“Dillon stole my idea for harvesting sandcastle worms. I invented a process that would collect them and move them into prefabricated mounds, where they could perform their vital work without interruption.”
“What is their vital work?” I asked.
Her eyes lit up. “The worms secrete an underwater adhesive that could be used to rebuild the Great Barrier Reef within five years. The adhesive forms a bond as strong as cement. I’ve also been experimenting with the adhesive in connection with tissue, skin, and bone repair.”
The awful Sketch was forgotten for the moment as Midge warmed up to her subject. “The key factor is that many parts of our body contain fluids and that’s why the sandcastle worm is so crucial. Because they produce their secretions underwater.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s fantastic.”
“Dillon thought so, too,” she said bitterly. “That’s why he stole the idea and put his own name on the patent.”
“He wasn’t a very good person,” I said lamely.
“That wasn’t the only project he stole,” she said.
“There’s more?” Mac asked.
“Yes. I had an eco-fisheries project that was really promising. But Dillon told me that it was useless. I told him that if he wasn’t interested, I would take it to Rafe and see about getting a foundation grant.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
“I thought so, but Dillon threatened me. Said if I went over his head, I would never see a bloody cent from Rafe or any other investor in the country.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said sardonically. “Because when I said I was going to do that very thing, Dillon just smiled in that smarmy way he had.”
“I know the smile you’re talking about,” I said.
“Everybody does, I guess.” She sighed. “So anyway, he said that I couldn’t get a grant for a project that he already held the patent for.”
“So he admitted that he stole the patent.”
“No, he didn’t admit it. Not in so many words. But that’s exactly what he did. I was so furious. I told him I would find a way to kill him. That probably wasn’t very smart.”
“So what did you hope to find in his hotel room?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, frustrated. “I just needed to try to find some kind of evidence that he stole my idea.”
“In his hotel room?” Mac repeated.
“Well, yeah. He and Rafe were meeting with a bunch of people who’d applied for grants and I was one of them. So I thought he might have brought my patent information with him.”
That made some sense, I thought. Knowing Dillon, he would want to have plenty of ammunition to shoot down applicants by claiming that their brilliant ideas had already been taken. By him.
“You need to talk to Rafe,” Mac suggested. “He never would’ve let that happen, and I’m sure he’ll be willing to remedy the problem.”
Her face crumpled as she began to cry. “But they’re partners. Why would he take my side?”
“Because they’re not partners,” I insisted. “Rafe was dissolving the company and he was in the process of completely cutting himself off from Dillon.”
“And now Dillon’s dead,” she whispered.
“Yes, he is.” I reached over and squeezed Midge’s hand. “But that doesn’t make what he did any less wrong. Talk to Rafe. He’s a good guy. He’ll make this right for you.”
She pressed her lips together, blotted the tears with her cocktail napkin, and finally nodded. “I’ll give it a try.” She pushed her chair back. With a frown, she admitted, “I guess I’m glad I talked to you.”
“I’m glad, too,” I said.
“I felt like such a fool.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, I still feel like a fool, falling for that big fake Sketch Horn. But I’ll get over it, which makes me think that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“There is,” I said cheerfully.
She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Just hope it’s not a train.”
Mac grinned, then stood and gave her a hug. “Good luck.”
After Midge left, Mac and I stayed on the patio, enjoying the sunset and finishing our beers.
“She still could’ve killed Dillon,” I said.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Mac said. “That could be precisely why she came to the conference.
“Maybe Sketch provided a distraction in between the hard work of killing Dillon and Sherman and attempting to kill Rafe.”
“That sounds awfully cynical.” I smiled at him. “It might be true, but still. Ouch.”
He smiled back. “But look, there’s a killer out there and he’s starting to aim pretty close to home.”
I rubbed my arms where shivers had erupted. “The bullet that hit the hearth was way too close to home.”
“And,” he added, “Midge was really upset about Dillon stealing her work.”
“I’d be furious if it happened to me. Anyone would be.” The more I thought about it, the more I was actually sympathizing with Midge. Still, she could be a killer. “I wonder how good she is with a rifle.”
“Speaking of rifles,” Mac mused, “if I were Sketch Horn, or Marv, or whatever his name is, I would be hiding under the bed in my room right now. Because he just provided two determined women with a really strong motive to kill him.”
“He sure did.”
Mac paid the bar tab and we walked back inside. “Do you really think Midge could’ve killed Dillon?”
“I think she was angry enough to do it. But then, why would she kill Sherman?”
Mac shrugged. “Someone else could’ve killed Sherman.”
I glanced at him sideways. “What are the chances of having two killers show up at this conference?”
“It’s a long shot,” Mac said with a half smile.
“Okay, so Midge kills Dillon. Stabs him in the stomach.” I pictured it happening as I spoke. “She’s petite, but strong. And motivated.”
“I agree.”
“Then she realizes—wrongly, of course—that Rafe is just as big an obstacle as Dillon was. She likes Rafe, but still, he’s part of her big problem. So she sneaks out to the Ecosphere, climbs to the roof, takes the shot at Rafe, misses the shot, thank goodness.”
“Thank goodness,” Mac echoed.
“And on her way down from the roof,” I continued, “she runs into Sherman. And in that moment she knows she has to kill him. But she’s already got the rifle all packed up, so instead, she grabs the first thing she sees, namely the vine.”
“Stephanie,” Mac murmured.
I grinned. “Right. Midge grabs Stephanie and, without another thought, wraps it tightly around Sherman’s neck.”
“Quite the scenario,” Mac said.
“It’s outlandish at best,” I admitted.
“Should be easy enough to find out if Midge has any experience with guns.”
We stopped in the empty hallway near the elevator banks. For a moment, Mac pondered all the possibilities. “You know, it’s really too bad that Rafe and I didn’t race to the tower immediately after hearing that shot ring out. We might’ve caught the killer before Sherman was strangled.”
“I’ve thought about that, too,” I said. “But it would’ve been so dangerous. The killer had a gun. One of you could’ve been shot.”
“Yeah, maybe. But Rafe had a gun, too.”
“Great,” I said, shivering again. “There could’ve been a shoot-out.”
“Possibly.” But he actually didn’t look too bothered by the idea.
I was quiet for a minute. “I don’t think Sherman was one of the killer’s intended targets. I think he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Why was he there at all?” Mac wondered.
I glanced up at him. “Just enjoying some quiet time?”
“Yeah, right,” he said dryly. “Maybe wanted to breathe in some of that clean air.”
“Sherman worked at the laboratory where Stephanie was tormented, according to Julian. Who hated Sherman, as I’ve mentioned before.”
“Answer honestly,” he began. “Do you think Julian could have killed Sherman?”
“He sounded angry enough to kill when I told him that Sherman was the victim,” I said. “But what hangs me up is Rafe. Why would Julian take a shot at Rafe? He and Rafe are friends. Or at least, they’re friendly. I mean, Rafe hired him to design the Ecosphere. He’s making a lot of money on that job.”
“Money’s nice,” Mac said, then added, “But didn’t you mention Julian’s name when you were going through those patent applications?”
“I did.”
“So he was another target of Dillon’s bottomless pit of greed.”
“And therefore, highly motivated to kill. And he could have been convinced that since Rafe and Dillon were partners, Rafe was in on the patent stealing, too.”
“If Julian’s invention is on one of those applications,” Mac said flatly, “then he had a motive to kill Dillon. And unlike most everyone else, he also had a motive to kill Sherman.”
I started to speak, then snapped my jaw shut. Julian? Really? “I would have thought Julian was too mild-mannered to kill, but I saw how he reacted to the torn-up Stephanie vine. He hated Sherman and was happy to hear that he was dead.”
Mac shrugged. “Just because he loves plants doesn’t mean he loves people. Especially people who want to destroy plant life.”
I sighed. “You’re right.”
“Okay, enough chitchat.” He pushed himself away from the wall. “Let’s go hunt down Wesley.”
As we headed for Room 230, I thought about Wesley Mycroft. Room 230 was a suite overlooking the pool, I recalled. I was beginning to believe that Wesley really was independently wealthy.
“Tell me more about this guy,” Mac said.
“I only know what I read about him in his conference bio. It says that he’s an innovator and an influencer.”
“Really? He’s got a social media following?”
“I have no idea.”
Mac frowned. “We write our own bios so he could be lying through his teeth. Maybe he’s an influencer in his own mind.”
I made a face. “It’s a stupid word anyway. Who even knows what it means?”
“You’re just jealous.”
I laughed out loud. “Wait ’til you meet Wesley. Then we’ll talk.”
I thought about that moment when I’d first met Wesley and how oddly he had behaved. Of course, at this conference, odd behavior was turning out to be the norm. No wonder Rafe wanted out of that world and into a simpler one with Marigold. On the other hand, he’d put on this conference and invited all of these people onto his land, so maybe he wasn’t quite ready to turn his back on the business world.
“Hallie said he might be independently wealthy,” I mused. “If that’s true, I guess he can afford to call himself an eccentric influencer.”
We walked halfway down the hall and stopped. “Here we are.”
Mac knocked on the door to Room 230 and murmured, “Can’t wait to meet this guy.”
I could hear movement in the room. “He’s in there.”
“Yeah.”
But we waited for another thirty seconds until Mac decided to knock again.
“All right, all right,” Wesley shouted.
“Sounds like he’s in a good mood,” I muttered.
The door swung open and Wesley stood there glaring at us. He wore one of the thick white terrycloth hotel bathrobes tied tightly over his dress shirt, tie, and pants. He looked ridiculous, but that was just one woman’s opinion.
No, wait a minute. It wasn’t just me. Wesley was objectively weird.
But then, he was an influencer.
“Hello, Wesley,” I said pleasantly. “I understand that you wanted to meet Mac Sullivan.”
He scowled. “That was yesterday.”
“Mac was very busy yesterday,” I explained with a patient smile, although it cost me. “But he has a few minutes to talk right now. Can we come in?”
His eyes widened and he shot a look from me to Mac and back again. “Why?”
“We could stand right here and talk,” Mac said. “Loudly.”
Wesley rolled his eyes. “All right. Fine. Come in.”
Gracious as ever.
He pulled the door open all the way and stepped back to let us in.
I walked into the room. “Thank you so much.”
“I don’t have all day,” he snapped.
“And neither do we,” I said. “Wesley, this is MacKintyre Sullivan.” I turned to Mac. “And, Mac, this is Wesley Mycroft.”
“Hello,” Mac said.
Wesley simply nodded. There was no shaking of hands. It was awkward.
But I had the feeling that any interaction with Wesley was awkward.
And right then I realized why Wesley might be upset. “I was very sorry to hear about Sherman.”
“You’re sorry?” he said, pressing two fingers against his temple. “How do you think I feel? I’ve lost an important means of support.”
“I’m sure that must be awful for you,” I said, enunciating each word. “That’s why I was offering my condolences.”
“Condolences are of no use to me. I need more than . . . ugh.” He stopped talking, pressed his fingers more tightly against his temples, and groaned.
“What’s wrong, Wesley? Are you hearing the clicking?” I asked with a straight face.
“Of course I’m hearing the clicking. It means they’ve found me.” He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them warily. “It subsided for a while, but now it’s back.” And instantly suspicious, he gave Mac and me a thorough scanning up and down.
I took a step back from him. “It’s a shame you don’t have Sherman here to console you.”
“Sherman’s death is a great loss. He was my biggest acolyte and assisted me with many things.”
“So he worked for you?” I asked.
“No.” He swished his hand in the air, literally brushing away that statement. “He simply enjoyed being in my presence. As so many do. It was a comfort to have someone so compliant around. He was helpful. Useful. Sometimes.”
Hmm. Somehow I wasn’t quite feeling the love he felt for Sherman. Probably because he had no love for Sherman, except as a servant of some kind.
“I blame his death on the government,” he said.
“Of course you do,” I murmured.
“How dare you make light of my situation!” he cried. “Nobody seems to care that I could be the next to die!”
I exchanged a look with Mac, who quickly changed the subject. “How about if we sit outside on your balcony? It’s a beautiful day.”
Wesley’s shoulders stiffened. “I don’t go out there. The rays can kill.”
“The ultraviolet rays?” I asked.
“Those, too.” He glanced around the room. “I can say everything I need to say right here and now.”
“Please do,” Mac said evenly. I watched him subtly shift his position, moving his legs slightly apart so that he was equally balanced on both feet. It was a martial arts move that I’d seen him make a few times before, whenever someone nearby had threatened trouble.
Wesley wasn’t the least bit physically threatening, but I was sensing an underlying rage. Where had that bubbled up from? Was it because of Sherman’s death?
“What is it, Wesley?” I said, feeling a lot less pleasant and more demanding now.
He gave me a fleeting glance before turning to stare hard at Mac. “In your fifth book, the president is threatened by an army of androids led by a crazed scientist.”
“Yeah,” Mac said with a light grin. “I had a lot of fun with that book, and the whole artificial intelligence plotline was—”
“Fun?” Wesley fumed. “Fun? How dare you, sir.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Beg your pardon?”
“You should beg my pardon!” Wesley said, shaking with fury. “How dare you make light of the fact that you stole that idea from me!”