by Amanda Quick
“Nonsense,” Eleanor said. “The only crazy thing she ever did was fall for your lies.”
“Linda is my wife,” Norburn said. “She can’t be made to testify against me.”
“That’s actually not entirely accurate,” Nick said.
But no one was listening to him.
Linda glared at Norburn. “I won’t be your wife for much longer, Gilford.”
“You can’t divorce me,” Gilford said. “You don’t have any grounds. I’ll fight you every step of the way. All I have to do is prove you’re mentally unbalanced.”
“There is no need for a messy divorce,” Eleanor said coldly. “My lawyer will file for an annulment immediately.”
“On what grounds?” Gilford yelled, his voice rising.
“Fraud,” Nick said. “Among other things, you married Linda under false pretenses.”
“Don’t worry, Linda,” Eleanor said. “With an annulment it will be as if the marriage never happened.”
Not quite, Nick thought.
The annulment of his short marriage to Patricia hadn’t been exactly magical. The problem was that, while the proceedings in such matters were always handled privately, everyone knew there were only a handful of legal grounds that could be used to annul a marriage. Fraud was one of them. So were bigamy and incest.
But there was another qualifying reason, the one that inevitably invited the most speculation and gossip: incapacity. It could imply insanity. It could also be interpreted as the husband’s inability to consummate the marriage.
In the past year he had discovered that rumors of either condition were pretty much guaranteed to destroy a man’s personal life.
He rested a hand on Rex’s head and watched the officers lead Gilford Norburn away in handcuffs.
“Maybe we should think about moving,” he said to the dog.
Chapter 7
Adelina Beach
The picture was perfect. Just what the client had ordered.
Vivian released the shutter. She stepped back from the tripod and the large view camera and smiled at the woman posing in the big, fan-back wicker chair.
“I think you will be very pleased with your portrait, Miss Frampton,” she said. “I’ll have it ready for you on Wednesday.”
Anna Frampton rose from the thronelike chair. She had requested something in the modern style. I don’t want to look stiff and straitlaced like my grandmother, she said when she booked the sitting.
Vivian had opened her inner eye while they discussed the effect that Anna wished to project. She had sensed a daring, defiant energy shimmering in the atmosphere around the woman. At the end of the meeting Vivian had directed Anna to return for the sitting dressed in menswear-style trousers, a leather flight jacket, and a pair of boots.
Vivian had done the makeup, going for movie-star drama. She had posed Anna lounging in the corner of the big chair, one leg thrown casually over an arm, and then she had fiddled with the lights and made tiny adjustments to the drape of the trousers while she coaxed Anna into a sultry pout that would have done credit to Hepburn or Garbo.
When Vivian studied her subject through the viewfinder she saw an unconventional woman infused with an intense sensuality and a taste for adventure. The final picture would violate all the traditional rules of a formal portrait but she was sure the client would be thrilled.
“I can’t wait to see it,” Anna said. “You made me feel like Amelia Earhart.”
Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, had been lost at sea several months earlier. The search for the wreckage of Earhart’s plane had been officially called off but hints that she and Noonan had survived continued to surface in the press. The public’s interest showed no signs of waning. Dead or alive, it was clear the daring lady pilot was on her way to becoming a legend.
Anna unwrapped the borrowed scarf and handed it to Vivian. “It will be interesting to see how Jeremy reacts to the portrait.”
“Jeremy?”
Anna grimaced. “Jeremy McKinnon, the man I’m supposed to marry. He’s a banker. Swears he’s madly in love with me. Maybe after he sees me in the aviator jacket he’ll have second thoughts.”
“You’re hoping Jeremy will take one look at your portrait and decide you’re not the woman he wants for a wife?”
“It will be easier if he’s the one who changes his mind,” Anna said. “I’d rather not be the one to do it this time.”
“This time?”
“I’ve already wriggled out of two engagements. I’m afraid my family is starting to see a pattern. To be honest, Miss Brazier, I find the thought of marrying Jeremy or anyone else very depressing.”
Vivian smiled. “I understand. Don’t worry. When Jeremy sees this portrait, I can promise you that he will realize that if he goes through with the marriage he will have to deal with a very modern woman.”
“That should do it,” Anna said cheerfully. “Between you and me, I’m certain that Jeremy is terrified of modern women.”
Vivian ushered her outside and watched her drive off in a racy little convertible. When the car disappeared around the corner she closed the door and, after a moment’s hesitation, locked it.
It had been two days since the encounter with Morris Deverell in the Penfield Gallery but she was still feeling deeply uneasy. The fact that there had been no arrest in the Dagger Killer murders in spite of Detective Archer’s optimism did nothing to calm her nerves.
She went back into the studio, took the film holder out of the camera, and hurried into the darkroom. She could not wait to see the results of the portrait. Anna Frampton was an important client who moved in fashionable circles. If she was pleased with the finished picture there would be referrals.
Vivian filled the trays with the chemicals and the stop bath, closed the door, pulled the black curtain around the workbench, and turned off the lamp. Working in the dark, using only her sense of touch, she started to open the holder to remove the film.
A draft of air under the door made her stop abruptly. Instinctively she closed the holder while she tried to understand what had just iced her nerves. The front door was locked. So was the kitchen door. But she had left some windows open. The studio would have been unbearably hot otherwise; the client would have been damp with perspiration halfway through the sitting.
I should have closed and locked the windows.
This was ridiculous. She was overreacting.
She stood very still, listening intently. She thought she heard a floorboard squeak. The sense that she was no longer alone in the house built rapidly until it became overpowering. She could hardly breathe. The urge to run, to hide, to escape surged through her. She was trapped in the darkroom. She had to get out. Now.
She put down the holder and reached for the edge of the heavy curtain.
The door of the darkroom crashed open just as she started to pull the thick fabric aside. A man loomed in the entrance, silhouetted against the daylight streaming through the windows of the kitchen behind him.
Morris Deverell had a dagger in one hand. She didn’t need to employ her inner eye to sense the waves of sick excitement emanating from him. He smiled.
“How did you figure it out?” he said.
He did not wait for an answer. He lunged forward, the point of the dagger aimed at her midsection.
A strange sense of intense focus flashed through her. Time slowed. It was as if she was observing the scene through the lens of a camera.
She yanked the blackout curtain back into place just as Morris rushed toward her.
He yelped in fury when the point of the dagger ripped through the fabric. For a few seconds he struggled to free the blade even as he used his free hand to haul the curtain aside.
Vivian was waiting, the tray of developer in her hands. She hurled the strong chemicals straight into his face. Morris grunted and reared back, instin
ctively raising his free hand in a belated attempt to protect his eyes. She followed up with the tray of fixer.
“You crazy bitch,” Morris roared. He wiped frantically at his eyes. “You’re a dead woman. Do you understand? You’re dead.”
But he was partially blinded by the chemicals. He instinctively retreated a step and came up against the heavy curtain. He waved the blade in wide arcs, fending her off while he attempted to clear his vision.
Vivian seized the heavy steel enlarger easel and threw it, discus style, at Morris. The corner of the metal plate caught him in the chest. Yowling in pain and rage, he managed to free himself from the blackout curtain.
He turned and staggered out the door and into the kitchen.
Vivian rushed after him because there was no other way out of the darkroom. She could not let him trap her there again.
She reached the kitchen in time to see Deverell stumbling out the door. The small backyard was enclosed with a waist-high wooden fence. It was doubtful he would try to scale it in his current panicky state. It was more likely he would use the garden gate that opened onto a walkway that led around the side of the house to the street.
The bastard was going to get away.
Driven by the violent energy of panic and fury, Vivian changed course and ran toward the front door. She got it open just in time to see Deverell emerge from the side of the house and veer toward the sidewalk in a shambling run. He was using both hands to wipe his eyes now. He had evidently dropped the dagger.
A tall, muscular young man was coming up the sidewalk, heading toward Vivian’s front door. Roland Jennings had come directly from the lifeguard station. He wore only a pair of swimming trunks. He had the kind of body that made both men and women look twice. His chest appeared to have been hewn from granite, thanks to hours of exercise on the nearby stretch of sand known as Muscle Beach.
He was Vivian’s afternoon client.
Roland stopped, bewildered by the sight of a half-blind Deverell staggering toward him.
“Stop him, Roland,” Vivian shouted. “That’s the Dagger Killer.”
Roland Jennings did not hesitate. His job as a lifeguard had accustomed him to reacting swiftly in emergencies. He grabbed the back of Deverell’s elegantly cut jacket and hoisted him off his feet.
“My eyes,” Deverell shrieked. “I need a doctor.”
Roland ignored him. “Are you okay, Miss Brazier?”
“Yes,” she said, panting for breath. “He just tried to murder me. Hang on to him while I call the cops.”
“Sure,” Roland said.
He gave Deverell a ferocious shaking.
“My eyes,” Morris shrieked again, his feet dangling several inches off the ground. “She tried to blind me.”
Vivian’s next-door neighbor Betty Spalding, a retired schoolteacher, came out onto the front step. She wiped her hands on her apron.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“It’s the Dagger Killer,” Vivian said.
Betty’s eyes widened. “Good heavens. He looks like such a nice man.”
A few more neighbors appeared.
“Whatever you do, don’t let him get away,” Vivian said to Roland.
“Don’t worry, Miss Brazier,” Roland said. “I’ve got him.”
“My eyes,” Morris yelled. He struggled in Roland’s iron grip. “Get me some water. I’m going blind.”
“Bring him over here,” Mr. Anderson said. “I’ll use my garden hose to wash out his eyes.”
Vivian rushed back into the house and called the police. On the way out the front door she grabbed her Speed Graphic and an extra film holder. She would deal with the shock to her nerves later. In that moment she had to stay focused.
She might like to call herself an artist but she paid the bills with her photojournalism work. There was only one word to describe the golden opportunity that had just been presented to her.
Exclusive.
Chapter 8
DAGGER KILLER ESCAPES, FOUND DEAD
Morris Deverell, arrested yesterday afternoon on murder charges, escaped the hospital where he was taken for treatment. Early this morning his body was found on the rocks below Sunset Point. Authorities believe that Deverell was hitchhiking and was struck by a passing motorist traveling at high speed. The driver did not stop at the scene. The impact sent the body over the edge of the bluff, where it was discovered.
Detective Archer of the Adelina Beach Police Department announced that, in addition to an extensive collection of antique daggers, several pieces of expensive photography equipment were discovered in Deverell’s large house on Pacific Lane.
When she finished the article in the Adelina Beach Courier, Vivian allowed herself a moment to admire the photo. It showed Roland Jennings in a classic Charles Atlas pose with his feet braced wide apart, one fist on his hip, the other holding Deverell aloft. She had written the caption for Eddy and he had used it unchanged. LOCAL HERO CATCHES DAGGER KILLER. Per her customary demand, there was no photo credit. She was pretty sure the picture would go national.
The phone rang just as Vivian was about to turn to page two of the newspaper. She got up from the breakfast table and went into the studio to pick up the receiver.
“Is it true?” Lyra asked. “Is that horrible man really dead?”
“Yes,” Vivian said.
“Thank goodness. The San Francisco press is reporting that the police found a collection of daggers and a lot of expensive photography equipment in a locked room in his house. It’s just as you predicted, Viv.”
“I know. We can all relax now.”
“Luckily Mother and Father are still in London. I doubt if the news will make it into the British papers. Even if it does, your name doesn’t appear anywhere in the reports in the San Francisco papers. I checked all of them this morning. There’s a reference to the fact that the killer was arrested in Adelina Beach but his intended victim is described as a single woman living alone. It says the woman bravely drove off her attacker by throwing some strong household cleaning agent into his eyes.”
Vivian glanced at the front page of the Adelina Beach Courier. “That’s what the local paper says, too. It was Detective Archer’s idea to give the press that story. He was trying to protect me.”
“From what?”
“Archer understands that if my name gets into the papers, one thing will lead to another and sooner or later my night shift work as a photojournalist will become public knowledge. If that happens my art career will be doomed.”
“Fingers crossed that you can keep this quiet,” Lyra said.
“You sound doubtful.”
“Let’s just say I’m not hopeful.”
Vivian sighed. “At least the parents don’t know yet.”
“Sooner or later they will have to be told the truth,” Lyra warned.
“I know. I’ll tell them when they get home. By then the story will be old news.”
“That isn’t going to lessen the shock.”
“You know, I could really use a dose of optimism this morning. I didn’t sleep well last night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Deverell coming at me with that damned dagger.”
“Oh, Viv, that’s horrible. Maybe you should come home to San Francisco, just for a while.”
Something in her voice sent a shiver of concern through Vivian.
“Lyra, what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Lyra’s voice rose. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You were nearly murdered yesterday afternoon. In case you weren’t aware of it, that sort of thing tends to rattle a sister’s nerves.”
“Okay, calm down.” Vivian sought for a distraction. “How are the plans for the engagement party going?”
“Fine.”
“Fine? That’s all you can say? You’re going to marry the man you’ve loved from afar
ever since you were a young girl. You don’t sound particularly excited.”
“I’m still trying to deal with the fact that I almost lost my sister to a madman with a dagger yesterday. If our situations were reversed, how would you feel this morning?”
Vivian took a deep breath. “You’re right. Sorry. I guess I’m still a little unnerved myself. I just want to be sure that marriage to Hamilton is what you really want.”
“Hamilton is perfect,” Lyra said. “Mother and Father adore him. Father says he’s the right man to take control of the company someday.”
“Father is wrong. You’re the right person to take control of the business. We both know that.”
“That is never going to happen,” Lyra said. “Father is very old-fashioned about such things. He loves us but the idea of a woman running a shipping business is beyond him.”
She sounded resigned, not bitter, Vivian thought. Lyra had evidently reconciled herself to her future.
“I know,” Vivian said. She tried to think of something positive to say but nothing occurred.
“Hamilton does listen to me when I talk about business subjects,” Lyra continued. She was very earnest now. “Unlike Father, he is very modern in his thinking, especially when it comes to women. He respects my opinions. He says he intends to consult with me on important matters when it comes to Brazier Pacific. I’m sure he will be open to my advice.”
Alarm jolted through Vivian. “Lyra, please don’t tell me you’re marrying Hamilton because you want to help run Brazier Pacific. I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lyra said firmly. “I love Hamilton. He’s absolutely perfect. Just ask the parents. Oh dear, I’ve got to run. I have a tennis game with Marsha this morning.”
“Lyra, wait—”
There was a click and the line went dead.
Vivian placed the receiver gently in the cradle. She knew Lyra better than anyone. Something was wrong.
Chapter 9
Jonathan Treyherne read the headlines in the Adelina Beach Courier while he sipped his morning coffee from a fine china cup. Morris Deverell, the Dagger Killer, was dead. The public could relax, at least until the next insane murderer hit the front pages. There would always be another madman armed with a gun or a knife or a garrote who would arise to terrify the good citizens of the towns and cities across the nation.