When Michael began to laugh, she realized she was the one getting all worked up now.
“Okay, no more lecturing,” Michael conceded. “I’ll even change the subject. Are you planning to stay at the hotel tonight, or will you pack your things and drive back with me?”
“I’m staying at the hotel.”
“Then you’ll check out in the morning.” It was a statement, not a question, and he expected her to agree.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know yet? You came to Boston to have some fun, didn’t you? And then you’re going to Scotland, right?”
Isabel’s cell phone rang, halting the conversation. She saw who the caller was and pushed the decline button. Then she answered his question. “Plans have a way of changing, Michael.”
Her cell phone rang again. It was the same caller and she once again declined.
She said, “He’s very persistent.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“James Reid. He was calling me nonstop for a while, but I haven’t heard from him for several days, so I was hoping he had given up. He’s with a company called the Patterson Group, and they want to purchase Glen MacKenna. That’s the name of the land I’ll own soon,” she explained. “Or have I already told you that? They offered what they insist is a good and fair amount. Those were
Reid’s words in the multiple messages he left. He even suggested that their attorney would be happy to get the papers ready for my signature.”
“And?” He was determined not to tell her what to do. She should make up her own mind. Still, he wasn’t going to let her do anything crazy.
“And I’m going to get my own attorney.”
“Good girl.”
“My great-uncle, Compton MacKenna, was a very peculiar man. He wrote a letter to me. It’s in a sealed envelope, and I’m not supposed to open it until my birthday, not a day before, in the solicitor’s office.”
“Before you sign anything, you’ll want your attorney to go over all of it, too. Right?”
“Of course.”
She waited, and when he remained silent, she asked, “Aren’t you going to say ‘good girl’ again?”
“No, you only get one of those a night. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Feigning surprise, she said, “Why, Michael Buchanan, I think you might have a sense of humor.”
“But I’m still a pompous jerk?”
“A pompous, arrogant, obnoxious jerk,” she corrected, “。 . . with a sense of humor.”
“Don’t forget dumbass.”
“I won’t,” she assured him with a grin.
When they arrived, the Hamilton was teeming with people. On one side of the lobby a dozen or so women, surrounding another woman decked out in a pink boa and a plastic crown, were headed toward the bar. On the other side a group of men in business attire were shaking hands and exchanging business cards. And at the front desk a team of college-age athletes stood in a cluster waiting to check in. From the size of them, one would conclude they played rugby or football.
Michael waited until they had made their way through the noise and hubbub and were in the elevator to ask Isabel to explain why she wanted to stay at the hotel.
“The house is already crowded,” Isabel explained. “There won’t be room for me.”
“There’s room.”
“I’m not fit company.”
“Sure you are.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Like what?”
She wasn’t sure how to say what was at the top of her list and so she settled on what Michael had called it. “My bad experience.”
“What about it?”
“I want to find out the name of the man I killed. Did he have a family? Did he shoot people for a living? Was that his occupation?”
“You want his résumé?” he asked, trying not to laugh. “You can’t interview him. You killed him.”
Isabel’s whole demeanor withered, and Michael immediately regretted his words.
“I’m sorry, Isabel,” he said. “That wasn’t funny.”
“I’m just saying . . .”
“That Detective Samuel has the information you’re looking for but won’t share it?”
“Exactly so. Detective Walsh is still in critical condition.”
“How many times did you call to check on him today?”