by Amanda Quick
There was never a shortage of crazies, Treyherne thought.
His elderly housekeeper appeared in the doorway. “More coffee, Mr. Treyherne?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Geddes. That will be all this morning.” Jonathan set the paper aside and rose from the table. “I will be working in my study this morning. Please see to it that I am not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jonathan started to leave the dining room. He paused in the doorway.
“By the way, I will be lunching at my club today and dining out this evening. You and Mr. Geddes may leave whenever the usual housekeeping and gardening duties are completed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Mrs. Geddes retreated into the kitchen.
Jonathan went into his study, then closed and locked the door. For a moment he stood quietly, thinking about the new commission. He would execute it with his customary skill and grace. Murder was an art, after all.
He always took a month to complete one of his great works, never more, never less. He did not take on commissions that left him feeling rushed. He was doing art, after all. Timing and precision were critical to a successful outcome. Each stage of the project—from research and preparation to the final result—was important but, more to the point, each stage was to be savored.
It amused him to take the client’s money, but the truth was he could not have cared less about the financial payoff of each commission. The extravagant fees he charged were merely a means of keeping score.
No, what he craved—what filled him with temporary ecstasy—was the thrill of the challenge and the hot satisfaction of carrying out the perfect crime, one in which murder was never suspected.
He always made it a point to attend the funeral. Knowing that he moved among the mourners without drawing so much as a second glance provided the final, exhilarating rush. He was not a wolf in sheep’s clothing, nor was he mad like the Dagger Killer. He was a modern example of the true Renaissance man, a scholar poet who was skilled in the violent arts.
The inevitable gray fog of acute ennui and the sensation of emptiness would settle on him eventually in the aftermath of completing the commission. But the prospect of a month of rising anticipation culminating in a deeply felt sense of satisfaction was irresistible.
Yes, there would be a letdown afterward but he took comfort in knowing that there would always be another project. He was the best at what he did.
He lit a cigarette and crossed the room to a painting that hung on the wall—a sensual scene of two reclining nudes by Tamara de Lempicka. It was one of the few works of art that he had brought with him when he left New York.
He took down the picture, set it aside, and opened the safe. Reaching inside, he took out the leather-bound notebook and carried it to the desk.
He switched on the lamp, sat down, and opened the notebook. The slender volume was filled with his poems. He had begun writing them after his first successful commission a few years earlier. The need to record the details of his work had become overpowering.
He understood that predictability was the greatest hazard in his work. He rarely repeated a strategy or a technique. Art was, after all, about originality and vision. He considered each project with the same care that he gave a new poem. There were rules, just as there were in writing poetry. But within those confines there was a great deal of room for creativity.
He turned to a blank page in the notebook, picked up the expensive fountain pen, and wrote the date. The new commission was somewhat different from the previous projects, but he began the poem the way he always did, with the particulars of the subject—name, occupation, address. That was all he had at the moment.
Vivian Brazier. Photographer. Number 12, Beachfront Lane, Adelina Beach, California.
He wrote it all down in the code that he had devised for the purpose. He would work on the poem as he set about observing the subject and crafting a strategy. The remaining verses would detail his impressions and observations. Inspiration would come. It always did.
Someday, perhaps when he retired, he would decode the poems and publish them. Anonymously, of course. Better yet, he might present it to a potential publisher as a work of fiction.
He even had a title: Memoirs of a Gentleman Assassin.
Chapter 10
Adelina Beach
Three weeks later . . .
Please move your left thigh a bit more to the right,” Vivian said. “Just an inch. Yes, that’s perfect. Chin angled toward the light. Head tilted. I want to emphasize your profile. Now look directly into the camera. Seduce me with your eyes, Norman.”
Norman Proctor gave her a slight smile and half lowered his very long lashes. He was posed amid a cluster of potted palms that Vivian had rented from a local nursery. Norman had explained that he wanted to look like Johnny Weissmuller. He was certainly built like Weissmuller, and at the moment he was wearing even less than Weissmuller had in the latest Tarzan film, just a very tiny loincloth. But Norman was having difficulty looking appropriately seductive.
He was another new client in a steady stream of good-looking, vigorous young men from Muscle Beach. She had already photographed some of them for her new series, Men, but after the picture of Roland Jennings capturing the Dagger Killer hit the front pages she had been inundated with requests for glamour shot portraits. That was because, twenty-four hours after the photo on the front page of the Adelina Beach Courier went national, Roland had been invited to do a screen test at a major studio. Some of his friends at the gym had begged for the name of the photographer who had captured the magic shot. Roland had provided the information. Word spread fast in the bodybuilder world. Now every strongman who spent hours exercising and showing off his well-toned body on Muscle Beach had dreams of becoming a star.
She knew that most of her new portrait clients were barely getting by working as bellhops and valets and lifeguards so she gave them a special price. She had also invested in a variety of wardrobes suitable for the images they wanted her to capture. She could pose them as rugged cowboys, swashbuckling pirates, or glamorous leading men.
Norman had opted for the most popular costume, the one that displayed the most of his undeniably attractive physique. But the picture was not yet right.
“Pretend I’m Maureen O’Sullivan,” Vivian instructed.
She got nothing but fake sensuality in response. She opened her senses and studied Norman for a moment. There was plenty of latent heat in the man. The problem was that she was using the wrong image to bring it forth for the camera.
“All right, Norman, let’s try this,” she said. “Pretend you’ve received an invitation to join Cary Grant and Randolph Scott for cocktails at Bachelor Hall.”
It was as if she had flipped a light switch. Norman sucked in a deep breath. His eyes took on a hot, sultry sheen. There was a definite fullness in the vicinity of the loincloth that had not been there a moment ago. It was a wonder he didn’t ignite the film inside the camera.
“Oh, yes,” Vivian said softly. “That’s it. That’s perfect.” She released the shutter and stepped back, triumph sparkling through her. “You’re going to love this shot, Norman.”
Norman exhaled slowly and relaxed a little. “Thanks, Miss Brazier. When can I pick it up?”
“I’ll have it ready for you next week.”
The doorbell chimed. She glanced at the clock. It was too early for her next shoot. A new client, perhaps. At the rate she was doing Muscle Beach portraits she was going to have trouble getting back to her art photography. But at least she had not had to sleep with the radio tuned to the police channel lately. There was enough money coming in now to pay the rent and keep her darkroom well stocked so that she could pursue her art.
“Excuse me,” she said. She paused at the doorway. “You can get dressed now.”
“Sure.” Norman stepped out from the f
ronds and reached for his swimming trunks.
Vivian swiftly averted her gaze. It was one thing to view a nearly nude man with an eye toward composition and lighting. Watching one walk around almost stark naked, even if he was more interested in the two most glamorous leading men in Hollywood than in Maureen, was another thing entirely.
She went into the front hall and paused to glance through the narrow pane of decorative amber glass that bordered the door on one side.
A man stood on the front step. He was not alone. He had a large dog with him. The dog was a handsome beast with a decidedly feral edge. Definitely not the cute and cuddly type.
The stranger waiting for her to open the door was a lot harder to classify but the words cute and cuddly did not come to mind. She opened her senses a little but she couldn’t get a proper read on him while peering through the glass. All she could see were the superficial, easily cataloged elements—dark hair cut short in the current style and strong, rather fierce features that were far too interesting to be labeled handsome. A stern, grim expression implied a severe lack of a sense of humor. He looked like a warrior doomed to fight a never-ending battle.
She knew one thing—she couldn’t wait to get the new client in front of a camera. She wanted to know his secrets.
She opened the door and smiled her best professional smile.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “If you’re here to request a portrait I’m afraid I’m fully booked today but I can give you an appointment first thing in the morning.”
“My name is Nick Sundridge,” he said. “I’m not a client. May I come in?”
The voice, she decided, went with the man—dark and resonant and compelling. It was a midnight-and-moonlight voice, full of shadows and unspoken promises. A voice that could lead a woman into—or out of—hell. She absolutely had to photograph the man.
But he had just said he was not a client. A tiny shiver of alarm flashed through her. She was suddenly very glad that Norman—big, muscular Norman—was still in the studio.
She dropped her professional smile.
“What do you want?” she said. “If you’re a traveling salesman—”
“I’m going to have to work on my image. People keep mistaking me for a salesman.”
“Is that right? Would that be because you are one?”
“I’m more of a messenger.”
“Western Union?”
“No, this message was delivered by telephone, not telegram, late last night. I was in San Francisco at the time. I’ve been on the road ever since. Long drive.”
“Who sent the message?”
“You don’t know the sender but I assure you he has your best interests at heart. I’ve got a character witness you can call.”
Before she could respond Norman emerged from the studio and ambled down the hall. He was wearing the very snug swimming trunks and his hair was still tousled. He looked like a man who had just rolled out of bed.
He noticed Nick, gave him a brief, polite nod, and then looked at Vivian.
“You can reach me at the gym when my photos are ready, Miss Brazier,” he said.
“Right,” she said.
She tried to think of an excuse to make him linger for a few minutes, but before she could come up with something plausible he was halfway out the door.
“Got to get going,” he said. “I’ll be late to work at the lifeguard station.”
He went past Nick Sundridge and strode briskly down the front walk.
Vivian’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Spalding magically appeared and made a show of walking to her mailbox. The elderly Miss Graham across the street emerged from her house. She, too, headed for her mailbox.
The mail for that day had not yet been delivered. Neither Mrs. Spalding nor Miss Graham cared. Vivian’s new Muscle Beach clients had become a source of great interest in the small neighborhood.
Nick’s brows rose ever so slightly. “About my message, Miss Brazier.”
She moved deliberately out of the doorway and onto the front step. Nick and the dog made room for her.
“You can deliver your message here,” she said.
“I’m a private investigator, Miss Brazier. I’ve been hired to protect you. I suppose you should think of me as your bodyguard, although in fairness, I ought to warn you that I haven’t had a lot of experience—”
She froze. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Someone wants you dead,” Nick said. “There is reason to believe that a killer has been commissioned to murder you at some point in the next few days.”
Chapter 11
I knew this was going to be a problem,” Nick said. “I explained that to the man who asked me to deliver the message. His name is Luther Pell, by the way.”
Vivian looked as if he had just handed her a live grenade. He didn’t blame her. He had a few modest talents but they did not include a gift for delivering bad news in a tactful, nonthreatening manner. He wasn’t a doctor or a member of the clergy or a funeral director. He was not very good at cloaking hard truths in soothing euphemisms. He was a private investigator. He dealt in facts. He viewed every case as a chaotic puzzle to be solved. When the pieces had been identified and put together properly, he went on to the next case.
One thing was certain—this job was getting complicated fast because Vivian was not the only one who was having a few problems coping with a sudden, unsettling turn of events. A blast of sensations had jolted his senses when she opened her door a moment ago. He had been made forcibly aware of the fact that he had been living what could only be described as a monastic life since Patricia had left.
Sure, part of it was the raw power of physical attraction. There was a hell of a lot of it, at least on his end, and it was easily explained by nearly a year of abstinence. But there was something else going on and he needed to figure it out fast because it was having a devastating effect on his sense of inner balance. He really needed the sense of control. He depended on it. Sometimes he worried that it was the only thing that anchored him in the world. Well, that and Rex.
Vivian Brazier was attractive but not in the traditional sense. Her features were too striking, too bold, too intriguing. Too compelling. The effect was definitely more than skin-deep. If she lived to be a hundred she would still be a fascinating woman.
Her high-waisted trousers and black silk shirt emphasized her slim, graceful frame. A couple of combs anchored her whiskey-brown hair behind her ears, framing mysterious, unreadable green eyes. She watched him in a way that warned him she saw things other people never noticed. They were the eyes of a woman who viewed the world from a different dimension.
The smile she had given him when she had answered the door, polite and professional though it was, had sent a thrill of delight across his senses. Now he was aware of a deep, prowling curiosity; a need to learn more about Vivian Brazier.
“I don’t know this Luther Pell,” Vivian said.
Rex leaned forward far enough to put his head in the vicinity of Vivian’s right hand. She glanced down at him, frowning a little. Then she reluctantly gave him a couple of pats. Rex grinned a wolfish grin and inched a little closer to Vivian.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve never met Pell, either,” Nick said. He paused and then decided there was no point keeping the truth from her. “He owns a nightclub in Burning Cove. There are rumors that he’s got mob connections.”
“That’s not exactly a resounding testimonial.”
“I know. But my uncle says Pell also has connections with the FBI and with a certain clandestine government agency. Evidently Pell used to run an intelligence operation during the Great War. All I can tell you is that Uncle Pete trusts him, and that’s enough for me to take this threat seriously.”
“Well, it’s not nearly enough for me to believe what you’re saying.”
“You’ve got eve
ry reason to be cautious,” he said. “But if you will call a homicide detective named Archer at the Adelina Beach police station, he will vouch for me.”
“Detective Archer knows you?” Vivian asked warily.
“No, but he knows Luther Pell. They both served in the War. Why don’t you go inside, Miss Brazier, and make the call? Lock your door. I’ll wait out here until you’re satisfied that I’m not dangerous.”
Vivian eyed him with a considering look. “Does this have something to do with the Dagger Killer?”
He had already figured out that she was a very smart woman, he reminded himself.
“That,” he said, “is a very interesting question. What makes you ask?”
“It’s not as if I’ve got a long history of people trying to kill me. My only experience in that regard occurred about three weeks ago. Now here you are on my front step telling me that someone wants me dead. It strikes me that if there is no connection to the Dagger Killer, we’re discussing an amazing coincidence.”
He nodded, pleased that her reasoning paralleled his. “Strikes me that way, too. But I don’t know the answer yet. Until I do, we should not leap to conclusions. Make the phone call, Miss Brazier. Then I’ll tell you what I do know.”
Another muscular young man, tanned, and with a mane of blond hair, appeared on the beach path walking toward Vivian’s cottage. He was dressed for an exercise workout in a pair of swim trunks that looked about two sizes too small.
“Hi, Miss Brazier,” he called. He glanced at Nick. “I know I’m a little early for my sitting but I don’t mind waiting.”
Vivian seized on the interruption. “You’re right on time, Sam, but I have to make a phone call. It’s a personal matter. Why don’t you wait out here with Mr. Sundridge and his dog? As soon as I’m finished with the call we can get started on your portrait.”