by Amanda Quick
“Sure.” Sam gave Nick an easygoing smile and extended one heavily muscled arm to shake hands. “I’m Sam Higgins. I’m a lifeguard.”
“Nick Sundridge.” Nick shook hands. “Traveling salesman.”
It was, he decided, as good an explanation for his presence in Vivian’s front yard as anything else.
Vivian bolted into the house and slammed the front door. Nick winced when he heard the muffled thud of the dead bolt sliding home.
Sam gave Nick another smile. “Salesman, huh? My pop was in sales up in Seattle. His company went under when the bad times hit so we moved down here to California. Pop’s selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door now.”
“I see. I hope he’s making it.”
“You know how it is, we all chip in. We’re getting by. What’s your line?”
“I’m not sure yet but I’m starting to think that sales might not be a good career path for me. I don’t think I have the right personality for it.”
“So, you’re looking for work?”
“You could say that. I’m hoping to convince Miss Brazier that she needs an assistant.”
That sounded good, Nick decided. Logical. Reasonable. A perfectly acceptable explanation for standing out here in Vivian’s front yard.
Sam grinned. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Miss Brazier’s a real popular photographer. All the guys who work out on Muscle Beach want her to take their pictures.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“Personally, I’m a student of Charles Atlas.” Sam got an evangelical glint in his eyes. “Are you familiar with his theory of Dynamic Tension?”
The problem with dealing with those who devoted themselves to developing the perfect body was that they tended to be obsessed with the subject.
“I’ve seen the ads in the magazines,” Nick said.
“It’s an amazing system,” Sam said. “It utilizes the power of one’s own muscles to develop strength and stamina. I’m here to tell you it has changed my life. Before I started the program I never could have gotten a job as a lifeguard. But in just seven days after starting the exercises I was on my way to becoming a new man.”
“Is that right? What happened to the old one?”
The door opened abruptly. Nick exhaled a small sigh of relief. He and Sam and Rex all turned to look at Vivian. She no longer appeared as if she was going to run for the hills, but there was a new kind of subtle tension about her.
“You’d better come inside,” she said to Nick. Her voice was cool and firm. “Sam, would you mind coming back a little later? Say an hour from now?”
“Sure, Miss Brazier,” Sam said. “See you.”
He waved and trotted back toward the path that led to the beach.
Vivian waited until he was gone. Then she retreated into the hallway and silently invited Nick and Rex to enter. They followed her into a dining room that had been converted into an office.
Nick understood. Vivian lived alone. She didn’t need a dining room any more than he did.
There were matted photographs on every wall of the office. The subject matter varied. Moody landscapes, portraits that hinted at the sitters’ most closely held secrets, and street scenes covered most of the available display space.
One picture stood out from the others because the style was quite different. It was an image of a gaudy carousel that had been manipulated in the printing process to make it look as if the horses were being ridden by wild-eyed ghosts. The result was eerie and macabre and, in some way he could not explain, humorous.
Something about the spectral riders caught his attention. He took a closer look and smiled to himself. Each of the ghosts had the same face, that of a man with sharp features and shoulder-length hair swept back from a dramatic widow’s peak. Each ghost had a camera hanging from a strap around his neck. But the cameras appeared to be so large and heavy they acted as anchors. A carousel of the damned doomed to take endless photographs in hell.
“A year and a half ago I took a photography class from an instructor who favored the pictorial style,” Vivian explained. “It’s not my style but I wanted to learn the techniques. That picture was a class project.”
Nick looked at her. “Did you pass the class?”
“Nope.” She dropped into the chair behind the desk and gave him a chilly smile. “I quit. The instructor said my work was sentimental and that it lacked genuine artistic vision. He also said a few other things when he saw that picture.”
“Because he realized it’s a photographic joke featuring him?”
Vivian blinked, evidently surprised that he had noticed the humor in the image. He might be a poor excuse for a traveling salesman but he could see facts when they were right in front of him.
“Exactly,” she said. “When he saw it, he understood that it was my way of telling him that he and his artistic vision could go to hell. That image is technically perfect, by the way. I will admit I learned a few things in the class. Forget my pictures. Evidently I have bigger problems than a failure of artistic vision.”
Nick studied her in silence for a couple of beats, trying to figure out exactly how she was reacting to his bombshell. But it was hard to get a read on Vivian Brazier. She was a mystery. A lot of people, male or female, would have been in hysterics by now.
“What did Detective Archer tell you?” he said.
“Virtually nothing helpful. He said that no one seems to have any idea why I’m in danger but he was adamant that this Luther Pell person can be trusted. Pell told him the threat appears to be real and that you’ve got the qualifications needed to keep me safe while Pell and his consultant try to figure out who wants to kill me.”
“Pell’s consultant is my uncle Pete. He was a cipher expert, a code breaker during the War and for a few years afterward. I’m afraid it isn’t just a matter of identifying and stopping the killer.” Nick paused for emphasis. “We have to identify the individual who hired the assassin.”
“I don’t know what to think. This is all just so bizarre.”
She sounded bewildered as well as unnerved.
Rex’s ears pricked. He padded across the room, rested his head on her thigh, and looked up at her. Absently she put a hand on his head and stroked behind his ears. Rex got a blissful expression.
“I shouldn’t have broken the news to you the way I did,” Nick said. “In my own defense I’d just like to say that I’m not sure there is a good way to tell someone that her life is in danger.”
“Detective Archer also assured me that you were indeed an investigator and that, although some people consider you rather odd and eccentric, you are neither crazy nor criminally insane.”
“I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear that.”
“I do not find this situation amusing,” she said. “I simply cannot fathom why someone would want to have me murdered.”
“If this threat is not connected to the Dagger Killer,” he said carefully, “there is one other possibility that we should consider.”
“What?” Vivian straightened in her chair and widened her hands in a gesture of futility. “Do you think one of my clients is unhappy with his or her portrait? That’s ridiculous.”
“I understand that you’re an heiress. In my experience, money is frequently a motive for murder.”
She looked even more stunned than she had when he had told her about the threat to her life. After a moment she pulled herself together and shook her head, conviction radiating from her.
“No,” she said. “The only person who stands to gain financially if I were to die would be my sister. Trust me, it’s absolutely inconceivable that Lyra would do anything to hurt me.”
Nick considered briefly and then set the matter aside. He had learned early on that there was an astonishing amount of naïveté in the world.
“Are you and your sister the only heirs listed
in the will?”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not sure. I’ve never seen my father’s will.”
The doorbell chimed.
“That’s my next client,” Vivian said.
“I’ll let him in.”
Vivian shot to her feet and flattened her palms on the desk. “Excuse me, this is my house and my place of business. I will greet the client.”
“It occurs to me that it would be exceptionally easy for a killer to gain entry to your house and your place of business by simply making an appointment to have his picture taken.”
“This is nonsense. I really don’t think—”
The bell chimed again. Nick motioned to Rex. Together they left the office and went into the front hall.
Yet another exceedingly muscular and robust specimen of manhood stood on the front step. He looked to be about twenty years old. At least this one was partially dressed in a sports shirt, trousers, and sunglasses. The shirt was unbuttoned to the waist, displaying a lot of sculpted chest.
When Nick opened the door, the young man appeared startled but he quickly recovered.
“You must be the photographer’s assistant,” he said. “I’m Eric. I’ve got an appointment to pick up the photos that Miss Brazier took of me a few days ago.”
“Wait here, please,” Nick said. “I’ll let Miss Brazier know that you’ve arrived.”
Eric eyed Rex and retreated a couple of steps.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll wait out here.”
Nick closed the door and threw the bolt for good measure. Eric did not look dangerous but there was a long list of dead people who had made assumptions based on appearances.
He turned and found Vivian directly behind him. Her eyes narrowed.
“Eric is waiting on the front step,” he said, trying to sound helpful. “He thinks I’m your assistant. I suggest we let him go on thinking that.”
“Right.” Vivian smiled a steely smile. She turned on her heel and stalked off down the hall. “Show him into my office, please. I’ll get the prints.”
Nick watched her disappear through the kitchen doorway. With a sigh he opened the door again.
“Miss Brazier will see you in her office. End of the hall on the right.”
“Sure.”
Eric moved through the doorway. Nick and Rex followed him.
A moment or two later Vivian appeared. She had a large envelope in her hand.
“I think the photos turned out very well,” Vivian said. “I hope you’ll be pleased.”
Eric flushed and gave her a big grin. His eyes lit with excitement. “Can’t wait to see them.”
Vivian took three large prints out of the envelope and displayed them on the desk. Nick was standing close enough to see that the photos showed Eric in various dramatic poses. In one image he wore nothing but a pair of bathing trunks. In another he was in a swashbuckling stance, sword in hand, billowing white shirt open halfway down his chest in a scene that looked as if it had been inspired by an Errol Flynn film. The third shot showed him in a stylish jacket and trousers, the quintessential leading man. Cary Grant.
Eric was clearly elated. “You made me look like a real movie star, Miss Brazier.”
“I know you have your heart set on becoming an actor, Eric,” Vivian said gently. “I wish you all the luck in the world.”
He looked up from the photos. “But I shouldn’t give up my job at the garage, right?”
Vivian smiled. “Something along those lines. I do understand what it is to have a dream, believe me.”
“Don’t worry.” Eric picked up the glossy photos and inserted them carefully back into the envelope. “If I don’t make it in Hollywood I’ve got another plan.”
“What’s that?” Vivian asked.
“I’ve been talking to a friend of mine about opening a gym on the beach. You know, a place where guys can lift weights and really concentrate on building up their bodies.”
Vivian was impressed. “That sounds like a very interesting idea. Let me know if you decide to do that. I could take some photos for you to use to market your gym.”
“Yeah?” Eric brightened. “Thanks, Miss Brazier. I really appreciate it.”
Eric headed toward the door, the envelope full of photos tucked safely under one arm. He did not seem to remember that Nick was in the room.
“I’ll show you out,” Nick said.
Eric glanced at him. “Oh, sure. Thanks.”
Nick escorted him out the door and returned to the office. Vivian was sitting behind her desk, one hand resting absently on Rex’s head, which was once again propped on her thigh. The dog appeared to be deeply in love.
“I’ve got more questions,” Vivian said.
Nick went to the window and contemplated the small backyard and the beach beyond. “I’ll answer the ones I can.”
“How did Luther Pell and your uncle come to hear about the threat to my life?”
“A few days ago a journal of handwritten poems came into Pell’s hands. The circumstances made him suspect that the verses might be written in code. He tracked down Uncle Pete, who succeeded in deciphering some of the most recent poems.”
“Go on.”
Nick turned away from the view and looked at Vivian. “Pell and my uncle are convinced that the poems are actually the private record of a professional killer for hire. Uncle Pete says each poem has a pattern. It starts with a date and certain personal details about the victim. There are also a couple of encrypted lines that identify the individual who commissioned the murder, how much that person paid, and the motive.”
Vivian frowned. “Why would the killer put down so much information about the individual who hired him?”
Nick shrugged. “I think it’s safe to say that at some point in the future the assassin will start blackmailing his clients.”
Vivian shuddered. “Of course. He’ll want to impress them with the details as a way of proving he knows their secret.”
“The remainder of the verses in each poem describe the strategy and methods the assassin used to complete each commissioned murder. Uncle Pete told me that the killer apparently prides himself on creativity, but more importantly he has a strict pattern. He observes his victim for a month before he decides exactly how he will carry out the murder. Evidently he savors that part of the process.”
“The murder?”
“That, too. But my uncle read a couple of the poems to me. I got the impression the killer enjoys stalking his victim. It gives him a sense of power. It’s his cocaine.”
“I can’t believe I am the subject of one of those horrible poems. It makes no sense.”
“To be clear, the last entry in the journal, the one that has your name in it, is not a completed poem. Uncle Pete said there are only a couple of lines. In addition to the date, they detail your name, the town where you live, and your profession.”
Vivian rose and went to stand at the window. Rex followed, sat down beside her, and leaned heavily against her right leg.
“What about the name and address of the person who paid to have me murdered?” Vivian asked quietly.
“Luther Pell says apparently the journal was stolen before the killer recorded those details in the poem. The thief died in Burning Cove, which is how the volume fell into Pell’s hands.”
“If the killer lost his book of poems, perhaps he will abandon the commission.”
“I don’t think we can assume he’ll stop. Judging by what my uncle read to me over the phone, I believe it is far more likely he will be obsessed with finishing what he started.”
Vivian folded her arms very tightly and began to pace the small space, walking in circles. Rex accompanied her. Nick had to get out of the way when they went past him.
“Since the assassin began the project involving me about three weeks ago, time is running out fast, is tha
t what you’re trying to say?” Vivian asked.
“Assuming he sticks to his pattern of taking a month to complete each commission, yes.”
Vivian frowned. “How can Pell be sure that the man who died with the poems in his possession wasn’t the assassin?”
“Good question. The name of the thief was Jasper Calloway and Pell is certain he was not the hired killer.”
“How can he possibly be sure?”
Nick paused and then decided he might as well tell her what Luther Pell had told him.
“Two reasons. Pell knows something about the thief. He says Calloway was many things, but not a poet. Pell also said that Calloway was very . . . competent. He was thorough but he was careful not to be predictable.”
“In other words, if Calloway had been the assassin, I would probably be dead by now, is that it?”
“That’s Pell’s theory and I’m inclined to agree with him. There’s another reason to think that the assassin is still alive. Pell says he has been informed that someone in the underworld is trying to find the journal. That individual will pay any price. No questions asked.”
Vivian turned quickly. “The assassin?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“How does Pell know such things?”
“I told you, he has mob connections. Someone from that world, a man known as the Broker, contacted Pell shortly after Calloway died. The Broker told him that someone is looking for the journal.”
“There must be any number of people who would want to get their hands on that volume,” Vivian said.
“Certainly. Any of the clients who paid for a murder, for starters. But he or she would have to know about the existence of the journal in the first place. It seems unlikely that any of the people who commissioned the murders would be aware of the volume, let alone that the poems were encrypted.”
“Surely this Broker who contacted Pell knows the identity of whoever is willing to pay any amount to get hold of the volume.”
“Not in this case,” Nick said. “In the underworld there are ways to handle such things anonymously.”