“What’s your name again?” Sean asked the new arrival.
“Jalen Jones.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m a podcaster.”
“Sean Bentham.” He shook the offered hand. “I’m a traveler.”
Funny how he kept neglecting to mention the chicken.
“Hey, where is your hen?” Sofia asked.
“With the ladies in the conservatory,” Sean answered. “I told them to wait there when I heard the scream.”
“The goats,” Wadsworth’s voice explained. “They do make quite a racket.”
“Goats? Plural?” Sofia clapped her hands in delight.
“Yes, there’s a herd of about ten on the island,” Wadsworth informed them.
“What kind of podcast do you do?” Plum asked Jalen. The young man put down his duffel bag on the checkered marble floor.
“True crime!” He rubbed his hands together. “I just started it! It’s called Bloody Grounds. Our biggest sponsor is a coffee company, so it works on two levels.”
Okay, so it was definitely an eager expression.
“Uh, nice,” Marlowe murmured.
“Well, hopefully people will remember the name.” Jalen adjusted his glasses, his happy expression undaunted.
“This seems a strange thing to be invited to, don’t you think?” Plum commented. “I mean, why would a true-crime podcaster be invited to Pyre Festival?” She quickly held out a mollifying hand. “Not trying to insult you or anything. I know those shows are super popular.”
“I get it.” Jalen smiled at her. “Seemed strange to me, too, but the background of this island and this villa are kind of intense, murder-suicide-y, so I thought maybe that was why. And at the least, I could come and do an episode on that history.”
“Oh, scary!” Marlowe said. “I love that—and cool to cover the history! I love the 1920s. Especially fashion-wise.” She put a hand to her flared linen pants, tenting them out slightly.
As if she needed to indicate that she was a fan of retro looks, Plum thought, with her gorgeous Veronica Lake hair and His Girl Friday at the Tropics pantsuit.
Plum had to stifle a sigh. It was unfair that someone could be so beautiful.
Sean crossed the atrium, thrusting open the double doors again. “It was a goat,” he announced to the three girls waiting inside the conservatory.
“Wonderful.” Brittlyn gritted out the sarcasm. “All this and screaming goats, too.”
“And we can’t leave,” Sean continued. He glanced at the freestanding speaker in the conservatory and addressed it, scowling. “Want to explain it to them, Wadsworth?”
“Certainly, sir.” Wadsworth droned on.
“Should we go back upstairs?” Sofia whispered to Plum and Marlowe. “Pick our room and unpack?”
“Yes,” Plum replied.
While Wadsworth kept conversing with the others in the conservatory, the virtual butler’s voice also emerged from the atrium’s small stairwell speaker. “For the best room—” he began.
Plum gave a small, startled jump. Even though the butler’s voice was disembodied, she’d somehow started to personify him. Or rather it. It was jarring to hear the AI in two different rooms.
Wadsworth continued. “I recommend the room at the top of the stairs on the right. It affords an excellent view of the beach.”
Marlowe let out a little cheer at the mention of the beach.
“And, of course, should you wish to go down to the beach, you will also see a path from the top of the cliff,” Wadsworth said.
“Let’s do it!” Sofia balled up her fists, bouncing on her toes. “Beach! Beach! Beach!”
“Dinner will be served in the great hall at eight. Do enjoy your swim and the villa.”
Marlowe led the way up the curving stairwell. They were halfway up when a door slammed on the ground floor.
A hyperaggressive male voice yelled, “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THE WI-FI?”