Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

WHAT A NIGHTMARE .

For Holmes, the lobby reception was worse than being onstage. Out here, there was no insulation from the clingy crowd. And the panel session had apparently only boosted curiosity from the attendees. The small talk was excruciating. Holmes realized that the same people who spent their days crafting snappy dialogue often had no flair whatsoever for normal conversation. As he sipped the club soda Marple had handed him, he started to fantasize about an escape. Maybe through the hotel kitchen…

“Brendan Holmes? Incredible! I’ve been waiting all morning to meet you!”

Christ, please. Not another one.

Holmes looked down. The man’s head barely came up to his chest. The voice was scratchy. Not from cigarettes. With his superior olfactory sense, Holmes would’ve detected even the faintest scent of nicotine. Maybe a vocal polyp.

“I’m Oliver Paul,” the man said, thrusting his hand forward in a way that gave Holmes no choice but to shake it. The palm was soft, fingers uncalloused. Not a tradesman or blue-collar worker. Maybe an office worker or technician. God forbid another writer.

“My pleasure,” said Holmes. It was by far the biggest lie he had told that day.

“Do you mind?” asked Paul, pointing to a corner a few yards away. “I hate crowds as much as you do.”

Holmes followed him over. He noticed that the man’s left eye did not fully focus. It didn’t wander, exactly, just pointed a few degrees off axis. Unsettling.

“I’m sure you hear this all the time,” said Paul, leaning in, “but I’m a bit of a detective myself.”

Paul was correct. Holmes had heard it more times than he could count. From cab drivers, waiters, deliverymen, doctors, drug dealers…

“And what are you investigating, exactly?” asked Holmes. He flicked his gaze over Paul’s shoulder, searching for Poe and Marple, hoping for rescue. He spotted them locked in a spirited debate with Harlan Coben, who loomed over both.

“To tell you the truth,” said Paul, “I’ve got enough material for a great crime novel. Better than anything Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ever came up with.”

“Is that so?” Holmes had heard that before too. It always made him slightly queasy.

“But to tell you the truth,” said Paul, “I could really use your help.”

“To tell you the truth,” said Holmes, “I’ve decided to step back from the business. In fact, I’m thinking this might be my last public appearance.”

“That would be such a loss,” said Paul. “Please. Let me tell you what I’ve uncovered. It will only take—”

A chime rang out from the ceiling speakers, then an announcement. A pleasantly insistent female voice. “May I have your attention please. At this time, will our panelists and invited guests please proceed to the dining room for the Masters Luncheon. Thank you.”

“I think that’s me,” said Holmes, draining his soda glass. “Nice to meet you.” He brushed past Paul as fast as basic human courtesy would allow.

“Wait!” came the scratchy plea from behind him. Holmes didn’t look back, pretending not to hear. He caught up to Poe and Marple as they walked through the door into the intimate function room.

“Saved by rubber chicken,” muttered Holmes.