“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.
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!”
Chapter Ten
“You’re a liar,” Mac said calmly, although his teeth were clenched. “I don’t waste my time talking to liars.” He turned and walked out of Wesley’s hotel room.
Wesley stamped his foot. “I demand that you stay here and account for your actions.”
But Mac was already gone.
I stared at the door and noticed that it hadn’t closed all the way. Which meant that Mac had to be waiting right outside. I was relieved to know that he hadn’t left me to fend for myself. Not that I couldn’t handle this weasel on my own, but still, I was hopeful that Mac was nearby and probably listening in on our conversation.
I jabbed my finger against Wesley’s chest. “You’re lucky Mac walked out instead of punching you in the face. I wish he had done it, but he has too much dignity to stoop to your level.”
His face was turning red. “How dare you!”
“Stop saying that,” I insisted, furious all over again. “You sound like some kind of Victorian twit. Just FYI, ‘how dare you’ is not a real question or an answer to anything. It’s just a snooty way to pretend you’re better than someone else. And despite having your nose up in the air, you’re definitely not better than anyone else.”
As a punchline, it wasn’t bad. But I knew I had to get out of there before I lost control, so I whipped around and stormed out to the hall, where Mac was waiting. He grabbed my hand and we ran down the hall to the elevator.
“You’ll be sorry,” Wesley shouted, holding the door open as he bellowed down the hall and shook his fist at me.
“No, you’ll be sorry,” I shouted. “You pathological, cliché-ridden bozo.”
He stomped his foot. “I’ll get you for that!”
I glanced up at Mac. “He meant to say, I’ll get you, my pretty.”
“And your little dog, too.” Mac laughed. “Come on.”
I took one last peek over my shoulder. Wesley’s face was still bright red. Good. I hoped his head would explode.
I was so angry, I wanted to hit something. The elevator door was open and Mac had to pull me inside.
“Wow, Red,” he said, laughing. “You’re on fire.”
“He’s such a fool.” I felt like stomping my feet. “How dare he talk to you like that!”
“How dare he?” Mac laughed and drew me into his arms. “You said it. How dare he? Oh God, I love you.”
“You know what I mean,” I grumbled.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, still laughing.
Despite his warm words and the feel of his muscular arms wrapped around me, I wasn’t quite ready to calm down.
“I want to slap that supercilious attitude right out of his head. And then I’ll yank his tongue out and wrap it around his skinny little neck.”
“You’re so ferocious,” he said, gently rubbing my back. “I love it.”
I tried not to smile. “How can you be so nice about it? He’s awful.”
Mac shrugged. “If he’s truly determined to bring a case against me, I’ll hear about it from my lawyer or my agent. They get paid a lot of money to handle lying idiots like him.”
I gazed at him. “He’s not the first to try it, I guess.”
“No, and he won’t be the last.”
With that, I lost the last bit of my temper and rested my head against his shoulder. “I’m exhausted. And we didn’t even get to question him about Dillon. I’m sure that’s who stole his ideas. Not the government.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
* * *
On the short drive to my place, we stayed away from talk of Wesley and Midge and anything to do with the conference. Instead, we debated what to have for dinner. Mac had promised to cook.
“You can call for a pizza, if you want,” I said, leaning back with my eyes closed.
“Nope. I’m going to grill that pork tenderloin I started marinating last night. We’ll have it with wild rice and green beans. Very healthy and balanced.”
“You marinated something last night?”
&n
bsp; He grinned. “You’ve been distracted.”
“I guess so.”
He took one hand off the steering wheel, reached over, and stroked my hair. “I want you to go upstairs and relax, take a bath, drink a glass of wine, do that thing you do with your hair, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
I opened one eye to gaze at him. Touching his arm, I whispered, “My hero.”
He smiled. “My warrior.”
We walked into the kitchen and were immediately waylaid by a frisky little white dog and a slinky orange cat. After a few minutes of listening to their conversation—because Robbie and Tiger had plenty to tell us about their busy day—I took the glass of white wine Mac had poured for me, walked upstairs, and did exactly as he’d suggested.
* * *
* * *
I managed to make it back downstairs in less than an hour, a true miracle since I’d taken time to dry my mop of long curly red hair. And I did that thing Mac liked, where I pinned up half of my hair while letting the rest of it dangle and curl down around my neck and shoulders. It always looked a little messy to me, but Mac seemed to like it a lot. Or maybe he just liked what happened when he removed those few strategic hairpins.
Over dinner, we planned our tactics for tomorrow.
“I can’t imagine Wesley will approach you again,” I said, then dredged a tender piece of meat through the spectacular caramelized onion, mushroom, and cranberry–infused gravy Mac had prepared for the meat.
He started to speak, but I held my hand up to keep him from saying anything while I closed my eyes and savored the intense, rich flavor of that bite.
Finally, I said, “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”
He grinned. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“It’s like tasting heaven.” I sighed.
He reached over and took my hand. “Watching you right now is pretty close to heaven for me.”
I stared at him for a few long seconds, and smiled. “And to think I suggested a pizza.”
“Hey, pizza has its moments.”
With a laugh, I reached for my wine. “Where were we?”
“I can’t remember,” he said, grinning. “Something about the conference.”
Shot Through the Hearth Page 20
