When She Dreams (Burning Cove #6)(78)

“You were right,” Maggie said. “The police arrested one of the dream guides. Larry. I can’t believe it.”

She tossed the evening edition of the Herald onto the table and went to stand at the window of her hotel room. It was a little after six. In the distance she could see the lights of the Institute. The staff was preparing for the farewell cocktail party.

“That’s not a surprise,” Sam said. He sat down on the side of the bed and leaned forward to tie the laces of his freshly polished shoes. “He was the obvious choice because of the rumors of drugs. The interesting bit is that not only is Guilfoyle getting credit for predicting the murder, there’s a rumor that he may have done a psychic reading for the police. Talk about great publicity.”

Maggie turned around. The sight of Sam sitting on her bed, casually going about the process of getting dressed for the evening, was both disconcerting and satisfying. It was as if he belonged here in the same bedroom with her.

This is what love feels like, she thought. The realization shook her, momentarily stealing her breath.

She pulled herself together with a fierce effort of will.

“Do you think Brandon believes Larry is guilty?” she asked.

“Not for a minute.” Sam finished tying his shoes, stood, and went to the dressing table to work on his bow tie. “He knows as well as I do that the kid was framed. The problem now is proving it.”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “You’ve got another plan, haven’t you?”

“I need to get inside the Guilfoyles’ private villa. There will be a big crowd at the cocktail party tonight. No one will notice if I slip away.”

“Famous last words. What if someone does notice?”

Sam winked. “Your job is to provide me with a cover story.”

“Such as?”

“You’re the creative one. You’ll think of something.”





Chapter 46




Sam had been right about one thing, Maggie thought. The farewell gala at the Institute was a triumphant success. Beneath the massive wrought iron chandeliers, elegantly dressed guests consumed the seemingly unlimited supply of cocktails served by the catering staff and the two remaining dream guides.

Nothing like the thrill of murder laced with a suggestion of psychic powers to energize a room. Everyone was talking about the news and speculating that it proved the power of the Guilfoyle Method. Arthur Guilfoyle was basking in the glow of admiration and excitement. Dolores was stationed near the buffet table, clipboard in hand. She was jotting down the names and addresses of the holdouts who had decided they wanted to learn the secrets of the Method after all.

Maggie stood with a small cluster of conference attendees. There was a glass in everyone’s hand, including hers, but she was in no mood to enjoy her drink. Sam had slipped away a short time ago. No one appeared to have noticed, which was a relief, but her nerves were on edge. She would not be able to relax until he returned.

“They say the crime scene was horrifying,” the woman standing next to Maggie said. “The dream guide used a hammer. Can you imagine? He seemed like such a nice young man. The drugs must have driven him mad.”

“I heard the police found cocaine, pills, and marijuana in his room,” a portly middle-aged man announced. He downed half his martini in a single gulp and shook his head. “Evidently he wasn’t just an addict; he was buying and selling the drugs. What is the younger generation coming to?”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” the first woman said. “If I needed any more reason to learn the Guilfoyle Method, today provided it. I spoke with one of the guests who was invited to the private psychic reading last night. She said Mr. Guilfoyle did predict murder.”

“Astonishing,” another woman declared.

Maggie told herself she ought to keep her mouth shut, but as usual, she was unable to resist a comment.

“I was at that private psychic reading,” she said. “Mr. Guilfoyle predicted a woman was in danger, not a man.”

“When it comes to the paranormal, you can’t expect precise details,” the portly man said.

There were murmurs of agreement. Maggie vowed not to make any more attempts to correct the rapidly growing legend of the Guilfoyle Method. There was no point. People were going to believe what they wanted to believe.

“Champagne, Miss Lodge?”

Maggie turned to see the dream guide named Gloria standing right behind her. There was a single glass of champagne and a small slip of folded notepaper on the tray she held out.

“Thank you,” Maggie said. “But I haven’t had a chance to finish my first drink.”

She hadn’t touched it, in fact.

“Yours will be warm now,” Gloria said. There was an urgency in her tone and a pleading expression in her eyes. The tray trembled a little. “Why don’t you take the fresh, chilled glass. Please.”

The message was clear. Gloria was frightened and desperate.

“That is an excellent idea,” Maggie said. She put the untouched glass on the tray and picked up the fresh champagne with one gloved hand. She managed to palm the folded note at the same time.

Gloria was visibly relieved.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She turned and hurried off into the crowd.

Maggie drifted away from the portly man and the others and found a quiet alcove. She set her glass down on a small table and unfolded the note.