Manfred let his surprise show. “Since I didn’t think I knew any of the people, I didn’t pay a lot of attention,” he said. “If something out of the ordinary had happened, I’m sure I’d would remember it. Raised voices or throwing a drink . . . major drama.”

“So that’s all you noticed. Three people, sitting in a booth, talking. You were pretty close to them, back-to-back. You didn’t hear any of the conversation? You didn’t form a conclusion about how they were all getting along?”

“No. None of my business.”

“Famous psychic like you, no . . . emanations?” Detective Sterling wiggled his fingers in the air to indicate something spooky. It would have entertained a five-year-old. Manfred was not amused. He’d been sure that the detective knew who and what he was the moment he’d come up to the table. He was less sure the detective had any idea at all about Olivia’s means of making a living. It would have been informative and entertaining to ask Sterling, but he knew he couldn’t.

Manfred smiled tolerantly (he’d had a lot of practice at that). “Not a single vibration,” he said. He glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, I need to leave now.”

“Sure, go right ahead, Mr. Bernardo. You’re staying here tonight?”

“Tonight and tomorrow night, unless something happens to change my plans.”

“What could happen?” Sterling seemed genuinely curious.

“My clients may not want to come to a hotel where there’s an active police investigation.”

“So far, everything seems to point to a murder/suicide,” the detective said. “That’s what the electronic keycard activity indicates. Just one entry, when they came back to their room after dinner. Though we’re still checking every little fact.”

“Of course. You have to be sure,” Manfred echoed. Only keyed entrances would show up on the hotel’s computer, he was fairly sure. The computer wouldn’t register the room door being opened from the inside. Olivia hadn’t used the keycard Lucy Devlin had given her.

“After all, we’re not psychic like you,” Detective Sterling was saying, still with that fake-jovial edge to his voice.

“Wouldn’t it be handy if you were? Well, best of luck with your investigation.” Manfred rose.

“So if I need to talk to you . . .”

“Give me a call.” Manfred told Sterling his cell phone number, and Sterling wrote it on the pad. “I’m working, but I can spare a few minutes for the police.” On that note, Manfred left the restaurant, feeling better with every step away from the detective.