by Amanda Quick
“Bad news,” he said to Rex. “I need information and Toby Flint obviously had some.”
He went through the dead man’s pockets.
In the stillness of the night the sound of the Packard’s door opening seemed unnaturally loud. Nick looked around and saw Vivian standing on the curb next to the vehicle.
“Is it Toby?” she asked, anxiety and sorrow mingling in her words.
“Probably,” Nick said. “I think someone must have gone through his pockets. They’re empty.”
“I can tell you for certain if it’s him,” she said.
“You’re not going to want to take a close look. He’s pretty cut up and . . . broken. There’s some glass. Must have been hit by a car.”
“I’ve done a lot of crime scene photography, remember? I’ve seen bodies before.”
“I doubt if they were bodies of people you knew,” Nick said. “It’s different.”
“I have to be sure it’s him because if it is—”
“Stop right there. Whatever happened here, it’s not your fault that this man is dead. The person who murdered him is the one responsible.”
Vivian did not respond. She walked toward the doorway. Nick could tell that she was having to make herself go through the ordeal. When she got close, he leaned down and tugged on the deadweight of one shoulder, turning the body just far enough to give Vivian a view of the victim’s face.
“Yes.” Vivian wrapped her arms around her midsection and quickly turned away. “It’s Toby. And you’re right—it’s different when it’s someone you know. Dear heaven. So much blood.”
“Hood ornaments will do that,” Nick said. “One of these days they’ll probably outlaw them. I’ll call the police from the phone booth. And then I’ll call Luther Pell.”
“At this hour?”
“He operates a hot nightclub. Trust me, he’ll be awake.”
Chapter 26
I can’t imagine how Toby managed to find me,” Vivian said. “My sister is the only one who knows I’m here in Burning Cove. I called her shortly after we arrived because I knew she would worry if she saw the reports of the fire that burned down the cottage I was renting in Adelina Beach.”
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. She and Nick were back in the living room of the villa but this time they were not alone. Luther Pell and Raina Kirk, the sophisticated, enigmatic woman who was obviously much more than a friend, had joined them.
Nick had mentioned that Pell had served in the Great War, which meant he was probably in his late thirties or early forties. There was some silver in his dark hair and a host of secrets in his eyes. It was obvious he had come directly from his nightclub. He wore an elegantly cut evening jacket, a crisp white shirt, and a black bow tie. His trousers were perfectly creased and broke at the precise angle over his gleaming shoes. There was a gold watch on his left wrist.
Raina Kirk was an equally intriguing mystery. Pell had introduced her as a private investigator but she did not fit the Hollywood image of someone in that business. She was cool and poised in a midnight-blue evening gown that swirled around her ankles when she walked. Her hair was pinned up in an elegant chignon. When she spoke, there was a polished East Coast gloss on each word.
“Did Toby Flint know you have a sister in San Francisco?” Nick asked.
Vivian realized that Luther and Raina were waiting expectantly for her response. She got a queasy feeling. Should have thought of that myself. She sighed and looked at Nick.
“You know,” she said, “sometimes your habit of leaping to the worst possible conclusion is a little depressing.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t help it. Character flaw, I’m afraid.”
Luther snorted softly, evidently amused.
“If it’s any consolation, it appears to be a family trait, Miss Brazier,” he said. “It’s why his uncle was so useful to me in the old days.”
“I see,” Vivian said. “The answer is yes, Toby Flint did know that I have a sister and that she lives in San Francisco. He showed up at my place on the beach one weekend when Lyra was visiting me. I introduced them.”
“Did Flint visit you often?” Raina asked.
“No,” Vivian said. “Only when he wanted to try to talk me into giving him some film or flashbulbs or when he was desperate for gas money. He was always going to pay me back, of course, but he never did. His finances were precarious, to say the least. He is . . . was . . . a good news photographer. His pictures sold well. Editors liked them. But he was a gambler. The kind that loses.”
“Which means he was probably in deep with some very rough people,” Luther said. “I should be able to verify that with a few phone calls, but for now I think we can assume he had a financial motive to track you down here in Burning Cove, Miss Brazier.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You mean the killer may have paid him to find me?”
It was Nick who answered. “That sounds logical.”
“But that means the killer knew Toby had some knowledge of my personal life,” she said.
Nick exchanged a glance with Luther.
“Yes,” he said. “It does.”
“The only people who might have been aware that Toby and I knew each other would be a couple of Adelina Beach freelance photographers and Eddy, the night editor of the Courier,” Vivian said. She shook her head. “I just can’t see any of them as paid assassins.”
Raina raised her brows. “Why not?”
Vivian turned both hands over, palms up. “For one thing the assassin keeps his memoirs in the form of encrypted poetry. In addition he charges a lot of money for his so-called commissions. Trust me when I tell you that if any of the freelancers I know has a lot of money, he’s keeping it very well hidden. Finances aside, I’ve spent enough time with my late-night colleagues to be quite certain none of them has any interest in poetry. I suppose it’s possible one of them is working as a hired killer on the side but I really doubt it.”
“Maybe one of them is the client,” Raina suggested, “the person who paid to have you murdered.”
Vivian looked at her. “I’m quite sure none of the freelancers I know could afford the assassin’s fees. And there’s no viable motive. I was probably the least successful photographer in the group. None of them had anything to fear from me. I certainly wasn’t a threat to their livelihoods.”
There was a short silence while they all considered those simple facts.
Nick looked at her. “We need to find out exactly how Flint discovered you were not only in Burning Cove but that you were staying at this hotel.”
“I’ll call my sister first thing in the morning,” Vivian said. “I’ll ask her if someone contacted her to inquire about my whereabouts. I didn’t tell her to keep the information a secret because I knew it would make her worry. The last thing I wanted to do was give her the impression I was in danger. She would have jumped into her car immediately and driven here.”
“You made a reasonable decision,” Raina said gently. “In your shoes I would have done the same thing.”
Vivian tightened her hands around the arms of the chair. She thought about the bloodied and broken body lying in the dark shadows of a doorway.
“Poor Toby,” she said. “He must have been desperate. If he did take money to locate me, he probably felt guilty about it.”
Nick gazed at her as if she had started speaking in tongues. “What the hell makes you think that?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He came to Burning Cove to warn me. His message was that he had to see me tonight, remember? It was a matter of life and death.”
Luther and Nick exchanged unreadable looks. Raina smiled a sad smile.
Vivian glared at all of them. “You don’t think Toby made that call to warn me, do you?”
“Until proven otherwise,” Nick said with great precision, “we will op
erate on the assumption that Flint took money not just to locate you but to lure you out of the safety of the hotel grounds. Keep in mind his instructions were for you to show up alone in a deserted neighborhood tonight.”
“Instead, you and Rex accompanied me.” Vivian hesitated. “Do you suppose the killer was watching us when we found Toby’s body and took off when he realized I wasn’t alone?”
“I don’t know,” Nick said. “I didn’t hear any other cars in the vicinity and Rex did not seem to be concerned, but that doesn’t mean no one was watching, possibly from inside one of the shops. But I am certain of one thing: The car that killed Flint sustained a considerable amount of damage. There was a lot of glass at the scene. Looked like one headlight was shattered. There will probably be some bent chrome and blood on the fender.”
“Detective Brandon is in charge of the investigation,” Luther said. “He’s a good man. He’ll notify all of the local garages and repair shops to watch for a car that looks like it has been involved in a collision of some kind. He’ll keep me informed.”
“I seriously doubt that whoever was driving that car tonight will take it to a local garage for repairs,” Nick said. “It’s more likely the killer will dump it over the side of a cliff. If it winds up underwater, it may never be found.”
Vivian thought about that. “If the killer does dump the car, he’ll have to find another vehicle.”
“Or steal one,” Raina suggested.
Nick tapped one finger lightly against the chair arm. “In fact, it’s possible he used a stolen car to kill Toby Flint. In which case, even if Brandon does locate the vehicle, it will be a dead end as far as the investigation goes.”
Vivian looked at him. “There you go with the unquenchable optimism.”
“What can I tell you?” he said. He gave her a thin, cold smile. “You’re seeing me in one of my more upbeat moments.”
The phone rang. Vivian flinched. Phone calls at three in the morning rarely brought good news. Nick leaned over and picked up the receiver.
“I see,” he said. “Thanks. I appreciate the information.”
He hung up and looked at the others.
“That was Oliver Ward,” he said. “He checked with the front desk. Ripley Fleming never left the grounds this evening. He dined in the hotel and went directly to the bar. He’s still there.”
Chapter 27
The following morning they ate breakfast on the patio, bacon and eggs for the humans, chopped-up steak and eggs for Rex.
The morning fog was rapidly dissipating and the air was fresh and invigorating. Nick watched Vivian spread butter on a slice of toast and decided the day was almost perfect: a California fantasy day.
But, as was invariably the case with fantasies, there was a dark side.
Vivian put down the butter knife and paused before she took a bite of the toast.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
He picked up his fork and went to work on the mound of fluffy scrambled eggs.
“I’m thinking that Toby Flint died the same way Morris Deverell, the Dagger Killer, did,” he said. “Both were run down by a car.”
He ate the eggs. They tasted good. Some of the best, if not the best scrambled eggs he had ever eaten. It was the woman on the other side of the table that made the meal such a gratifying experience. He could get accustomed to having Vivian sitting across from him at breakfast every morning.
She stared at him and then, very carefully, set the uneaten toast back on her plate.
“Do you really think there’s some connection between Toby Flint and Morris Deverell?” she asked.
“Back at the start of this thing it was at least possible to argue it was a coincidence that you’ve been attacked twice within a month. Now that two individuals with connections to you have been run down by vehicles, I’m ready to throw the coincidence theory out the window.”
Vivian fed Rex some bacon under the table and looked thoughtful.
“You told me that coming to Burning Cove might be a way to lure the killer out of hiding,” she said finally. “I don’t think we’re going to make any progress in that regard if we hang around the hotel all day and all night. We need to take action and we both know that means we will have to leave the grounds again.”
Nick started to argue but he stopped and drank some coffee instead. He didn’t like it but he knew she was right. He replaced the cup in the saucer with great precision, eased the plate aside, and folded his arms on the table.
“First, make the call to your sister,” he said. “Find out if Flint used her to locate you. We need to confirm that theory.”
“All right.”
Vivian crumpled her napkin, put it beside her plate, and went into the villa to place the call.
Nick started to reach for his coffee. He noticed that Rex was watching him with a very fixed gaze.
“You got Vivian’s bacon,” Nick said. “You don’t get mine, too.”
Rex was almost vibrating with anticipation. His gaze did not waver.
“I should never have let you take that correspondence course in hypnosis,” Nick said.
He picked up the last strip of bacon on his plate and tossed it to Rex.
Chapter 28
Vivian picked up the telephone receiver, asked for long distance, and gave the operator the San Francisco number.
The housekeeper answered on the third ring.
“Brazier residence.”
“Good morning, Dorothy. It’s Vivian. I’m calling for Lyra.”
“How nice to hear your voice, dear. I’m afraid you missed Lyra. She was gone by the time I arrived this morning.”
“An early-morning tennis game?”
“Why, no. She must have packed her suitcases late last night. Looks like she took half her wardrobe with her. She left a note saying she needed some time to herself.”
Vivian tightened her grip on the phone. Don’t borrow trouble. There will be a reasonable explanation for Lyra’s absence. “Did Lyra’s note say where she was headed?”
“No, dear. Between you and me, I’m afraid your sister has a raging case of bridal jitters.”
“Lyra?”
The old Lyra might have done something unpredictable like take off without letting anyone know where she was going, but the new Lyra was never unpredictable.
“Any woman can have some second thoughts when it comes to marriage,” Dorothy said. “It’s a very big step, after all.”
“Yes.” Vivian tried to clear her head. She did not want Dorothy to know she was alarmed.
“You’re worried about your sister, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice.”
“You know me too well, Dorothy.”
“I should after all these years. I really don’t think you need to be concerned. Miss Lyra and Mr. Merrick are a perfect couple. We all know she’s had a crush on him forever.”
“Yes,” Vivian said. “The man of her dreams. Mr. Perfect.”
“But if your sister is having some serious second thoughts—”
“Yes?”
“Well, then, maybe she should listen to her intuition,” Dorothy said.
“I agree with you,” Vivian said.
She hung up the phone and went back out to the sunlit patio. Nick got to his feet.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Vivian said. “Dorothy, the housekeeper, said that Lyra packed her bags last night and left sometime early this morning. There was a note but Lyra did not say where she was headed. Dorothy thinks my sister is having a case of bridal jitters.”
“What do you think?”
“I have a feeling Lyra found out that the man she thought was the perfect match for her isn’t quite so perfect.”
“Well, that makes life here a little more interesting.”
Vivi
an frowned. “Why?”
“Mr. Perfect was on our rather vague list of suspects, remember?”
“He was on your list, not mine.”
“He was on one of our lists. That’s all that matters. If Hamilton Merrick is the one who hired a killer to get rid of you so that your sister would inherit your share of your father’s estate, it will be fascinating to see what he does now that he’s in danger of having his second chance at a Brazier bride canceled.”
Chapter 29
You’re worried about your sister, aren’t you?” Nick asked.
It was midafternoon. He and Vivian were standing in front of the Ashwood Gallery in the center of Burning Cove’s fashionable shopping district. Vivian had brought her portfolio with her. You never know, she had said.
Rex was with them, ambling along at the end of a leash, investigating interesting scents.
Vivian was contemplating a large, matted photograph displayed in the window. Nick was examining the reflections in the glass. There was no indication they were being followed by Ripley Fleming or anyone else. He reminded himself that, even in Burning Cove, where celebrity sightings were common, it would be impossible for a movie star of Fleming’s stature to venture out in public without causing heads to turn—not unless he was very, very good when it came to the art of disguise.
At first glance the movements of the individuals strolling on the wide sidewalks appeared random. Some sauntered, relaxed and unconcerned. Most were enjoying the warm sunshine and the ambience of the glamorous town. Those who wanted to see and be seen were sprinkled about like confetti. Here and there acquaintances recognized each other and stopped to chat. Others were intent on getting to an appointment on time.
And then there were the lovers; all sorts of lovers. They ranged from the secretive type, who pretended not to notice each other in public, to the dreamy-eyed couples, who did not give a damn if the whole world knew they were in the grip of transcendent passion.
Nick reminded himself that he was not interested in transcendent passion—at least not at that particular moment. Thinking of transcendent passion had a way of disrupting his focus.