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 legen
dary. “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.”
&
nbsp; “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.”
Shot Through the Hearth Page 19
