by Amanda Quick
“I don’t know but I intend to find out,” he said.
He continued moving methodically around the room, opening drawers, looking under the bed, removing cushions from chairs, and examining the back of the drapes. But he was pretty sure now that he was just going through the motions. Still, he had to be certain.
When he was finished, he walked into the bath and went through the process again.
Amalie came to stand in the doorway. “You know, if you told me exactly what you’re looking for, I might be able to help you.”
He opened a cupboard. “I’m searching for something, anything, that will provide me with a lead.”
“That’s not particularly helpful.”
“I know.”
“Do you do this sort of thing a lot?”
He glanced at her. “What sort of thing?”
“Force your way into other people’s homes and rifle through their belongings with no idea of what you’re looking for?”
“Only when I’m bored and can’t think of anything more interesting to do.”
There. That wasn’t a lie; that was sarcasm. There was a difference. Intent mattered.
Amalie gave him her back, stalked out of the bath, and stationed herself in the outer room, arms folded.
He abandoned the search a short time later and went to stand in the middle of the bedroom, trying to come up with a new angle. It was difficult to think logically because Amalie was watching him as if she fully expected him to steal the towels.
“I take it you didn’t find what you came here to find,” she said.
“No.”
“I realize you aren’t about to confide in me but I think you owe me an answer to at least one question.”
“Depends on the question.”
“Are you the only person looking for this mysterious something? Or do Hazel and I have to worry that someone else will show up at our front door demanding access to Dr. Pickwell’s room?”
He thought about that for approximately half a second.
“That,” he said slowly, “is a very good question.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a card. “At the moment I think you and Hazel are safe. But if someone does come around asking to examine Pickwell’s things or claiming to be his next of kin, please call this number immediately.”
She took the card and glanced at it. “This is the number of the Burning Cove Hotel.”
“The front desk, to be precise. I’m staying at the Burning Cove. Whoever answers the phone will get word to me immediately.”
“I will certainly give your request my closest consideration.” Amalie smiled an icy smile. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Jones?”
She was lying through her pretty little teeth.
“This is serious business, Miss Vaughn,” he said. “Trust me, you do not want to get involved.”
“Apparently, like it or not, I am already involved, Mr. Jones.”
She had a point.
“I want your word that you’ll call me immediately if someone else shows up asking questions about Pickwell or trying to claim his belongings,” he said.
Amalie gave a small, delicate shrug. “I told you, I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll think about it?”
“You are not the only one who has a serious problem here. You don’t seem to appreciate the potential disaster that my aunt and I are now confronting.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I got this villa in a very sweet deal,” Amalie said. “We found out later that the previous owner dumped it onto the market at a bargain-basement price because a rather bizarre event occurred here recently. A famous Hollywood psychic jumped off the roof after predicting death during her performance at the Palace. That would be the very same theater where Pickwell was murdered tonight.”
He frowned. “You’re talking about Madam Zolanda, the Hollywood celebrity they called ‘the psychic to the stars’?”
“Yes. And now another, even stranger death has occurred, and the victim just happens to be our very first guest here at the Hidden Beach Inn, the very same villa where Madam Zolanda was staying when she jumped off the roof.”
He finally understood her problem.
“Coincidence,” he said.
Now he was the one who was lying. He did not believe in coincidences, but that just made the situation all the more confounding. What the hell was going on here in Burning Cove?
Amalie eyed him with a knowing look. “You’re not really buying the coincidence angle, are you?”
“Miss Vaughn, I can assure you—”
“Oh, shut up. You can stand there and assure me all night but after the headlines on the front page of the Burning Cove Herald in the morning, I doubt very much that anyone will be talking about coincidence. People will be discussing a dead psychic’s curse over breakfast.”
“Fake psychic,” he said automatically.
“Is that right? And just how would you know Zolanda was a fraud?”
He shrugged. “I come from a long line of psychics. I’m pretty sure Zolanda was a fake.”
Amalie stared at him, clearly dumbfounded.
“What?” she finally managed.
He tried once again to think of something reassuring to say. Words failed.
“Never mind,” he said instead.
“Never mind? You just told me that you came from a long line of fake psychics. How am I supposed to ignore that?”
“I never said they were fake psychics.”
“Do you really believe that there is such a thing as psychic power?”
“What I believe,” he said with careful precision, “is that there is such a thing as intuition, and right now my intuition is telling me that we have more important things to deal with.”
“You can say that again. By noon tomorrow, everyone in town will probably be calling my beautiful inn ‘Murder Mansion’ or ‘Death Trap Hall.’”
He smiled faintly. “Sounds like the title of a horror movie.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”
“No, Mr. Jones, I’m being realistic. What’s more, the gossip won’t stop at the edge of town. Given the public’s fascination with robots, the story that Pickwell was murdered by his own invention will go national. Exactly how do you think that kind of publicity will affect my business?”
There was not much he could say. She was right. The headlines would probably have a negative effect on bookings, at least for a while. Not that the place appeared to be doing much business anyway.
“The stories will blow over,” he said, once again going for a reassuring lie.
“How much time do you think it will take for people to forget? Six months? A year? I don’t have more than a couple of months, at the most. Every nickel I have is invested in this inn. I might be able to sell some of the furnishings and a few of the things that Zolanda left behind but that will only keep me going for a little while. Sooner or later I’ll have to sell this place. I won’t get anywhere near what I paid for it.”
“We’ll figure out something,” Matthias said.
“‘We’? You are not going to figure out anything, Mr. Jones. You’re too busy chasing your very important lead, remember? I’m the owner of the Hidden Beach and I’m the one who will have to find a way to keep my business open.”
“I’ll talk to Luther Pell. I’m sure he can arrange to send some business your way.”
“Mob business? No, thank you. I don’t think that will do the inn’s reputation any good, do you?”
“Business is business.”
“Pay attention, Mr. Jones. You will not discuss my personal financial affairs with Luther Pell. Is that clear?”
“All right, take it easy. For now, just give me your word that you’ll call i
f anyone comes around asking about Pickwell or his things.”
She tapped the card with the phone number on it against the palm of her hand. “Whether or not I make that call will depend.”
“On what?”
“On whether I get more helpful answers from the person or persons who show up inquiring about my deceased guest.”
“Damn it, Miss Vaughn, I admit I’m withholding information from you, but it’s for your own good.”
“Oddly enough, I cannot remember a single instance when someone did me a favor by withholding information. And just so you know, the I’m doing it for your own good line is the absolute worst reason in the world to do it.”
“Okay, calm down—”
“Good night, Mr. Jones. If you hang around here any longer, I’m going to have to charge you for a one-night stay.”
Chapter 5
Pickwell was dead, but he’d had his revenge from beyond the grave. The bastard had conned them all.
Charlie Hubbard stared at the heavy typewriter that he had found inside the suitcase. He had not known what to expect when he pried the grip open—only that whatever was inside weighed several pounds.
The last thing he had expected was a typewriter—a nonfunctioning one at that.
He was outraged. He was also terrified.
He’d waited his entire life for a break. Nothing had ever gone his way. A string of dead-end jobs had kept him from being forced to ride the rails during the worst years of the financial disaster that had swept over the nation, but only just. A year ago, he’d started working for crazy Norman Pickwell. At first he’d figured he’d finally gotten lucky. It was a steady job and mostly indoor work. Then he’d discovered why Pickwell’s last mechanic had departed.
The inventor had been wildly paranoid and given to violent outbursts. On several occasions Charlie had been forced to dive under a workbench to avoid getting struck by a large tool or a chunk of metal that Pickwell had hurled at him.
A week ago it seemed his luck had finally changed. Someone had dangled an irresistible lure. He had been offered more cash than he had ever expected to see in his lifetime. And all he had to do was steal one of Pickwell’s suitcases on the night of the robot demonstration.
He had risked everything for a fake typewriter. He was confronting disaster and he knew exactly who to blame—the person who had promised him money beyond his wildest dreams.
The plan had seemed so simple back at the start. His job was to make it possible for someone to enter the theater via the back door, help the person get into the robot costume, make sure the suitcases got switched, and drive the stolen grip to the deserted auto court. He had been told that someone would arrive to collect the suitcase. At that point he would be paid. He would be free to take the money and run.
He hadn’t known that Pickwell was going to be gunned down onstage until he heard the shots. By then it was too late.
In his glittering fantasies he’d believed it would all be so easy. Sure, there would be some risk, but it would be worth it. No one will ever know, he’d told himself. You’ll be the real invisible man.
He had seen The Invisible Man when it was first released a few years back. It had starred Claude Rains as Dr. Jack Griffin and it had been nothing short of thrilling. Charlie had been excited by the idea of invisibility. But there was no getting around the fact that the character played by Rains had gone nuts, killed a bunch of people, and come to a bad end.
Sometimes the movies got it right.
Charlie used the back of his hand to dash sweat off his forehead. He wondered if, like Griffin, he was about to come to a bad end. He had taken so many chances tonight, and all for a broken typewriter. He wanted to hurl it through the window.
He banged the space bar again and again and then he tried every key. Again. And again. Nothing moved. The carriage return appeared to be welded or screwed in place. He couldn’t even insert a sheet of paper into the damned machine. It was frozen.
He had assumed that the contents of the suitcase were worth a fortune. He had also figured out that whatever was inside was dangerous. Given the way Pickwell had guarded it at all times, Charlie had expected to find a few bars of gold inside or maybe a bag of valuable gems. But what he was looking at appeared to be an ordinary typing machine.
It might as well have been a lead brick.
Pickwell had deceived all of them.
Charlie sank down on the edge of the old cot and dropped his head into his hands. No matter how he looked at it, he was now involved in Pickwell’s murder.
Sure, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but if his role in the business was ever discovered, he would probably be executed. He’d heard that California was no longer hanging convicted killers. Instead, the state was installing something called a gas chamber in San Quentin prison. He didn’t know which method would be less awful.
He should have paid attention to his gut. He’d had misgivings about the job from the start but he had let himself be convinced that the promised payoff was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
He needed a plan, because the person who had promised him a fortune wasn’t going to cough up a lot of cash for a broken typewriter.
He shot to his feet and began to pace the small cabin. He had a car and he had the gun he had purchased at the start of this business, just in case things went badly. He also had some cash—not a lot, just a few bucks, but he knew how to make it last for a while. One thing you could say about Pickwell, he had come through with a weekly salary. Regular as clockwork.
Charlie considered his options and came to the conclusion that so many others had arrived at when they found themselves on the wrong side of the law. The answer was Mexico. They said that a man with a little money could live like a king south of the border. But first he had to get rid of everything that linked him to the murder.
He came to a halt and contemplated the typewriter and the suitcase. He had to dump all of it and do so in a way that would make sure none of the items were ever found.
And while he was cleaning up, he needed to get rid of the one person who could tie him to the murder, the person he had let into the theater through the back door. The killer.
Who was due to arrive at any minute.
The old, abandoned auto court was only a couple of miles from the ocean. It dawned on him that the simplest way to make the evidence and a body disappear was to toss everything off a cliff into the sea.
The muffled rumble of a car engine interrupted his thoughts. He went to the table, picked up the gun, and moved to the window. He twitched the edge of the faded curtain out of the way and watched the vehicle pull off the road. It came to a halt in front of the cabin.
Charlie tightened his grip on the gun. Might as well start getting rid of problems now. He had never shot anyone but how hard could it be?
He went to the door and opened it, careful to keep his right hand, the one clenched around the grip of the pistol, out of sight behind the wooden panels.
Pickwell’s killer got out of the car and walked toward the door, a coat draped casually over one arm.
“Something has come up,” Charlie said, trying to appear cool and calm.
He was concentrating so hard on his acting that he failed to realize he had miscalculated until too late.
The killer pulled the trigger of the gun hidden under the coat.
The first shot struck Charlie in the chest and sent him staggering backward. He dropped his own gun and went down hard on his knees. He clutched at his chest.
The killer moved to stand over him, taking aim again.
Charlie managed a hoarse, blood-choked laugh.
“It’s just a busted typewriter,” he whispered. “Two murders for nothing. Enjoy that new gas chamber in San Quentin.”
The killer pulled the trigger a second time.
Chapter 6
The phone on th
e hotel room desk rang just as Matthias was halfway through his morning shave. He put down the razor, used a towel to wipe off most of the lather, and went out into the other room to pick up the receiver.
“I have a long-distance call for you from Seattle,” the front-desk operator said. “A Mrs. Henrietta Jones.”
Matthias stifled a groan.
“Put her through,” he said.
His mother came on the line.
“Your father and I got your telegram this morning,” Henrietta said. “What in the world are you doing in Burning Cove? That’s where Hollywood people go to vacation. You are not a movie star. You’re an engineer. At least you’re supposed to be an engineer.”
“I’m working a case for Luther Pell,” Matthias said.
“I was afraid of that. How much longer are you going to drift around the country doing odd jobs for that nightclub owner?”
“It’s a living, Mom.”
“Working as an engineer is a living. The longer you associate with Luther Pell, the harder it’s going to be for you to get a respectable job. We both know that he has a certain reputation. I’m afraid that when you finally do join the family business, your own reputation will be such that your father won’t be able to let you deal with our clients. Some of our best customers are government officials. Others are respectable businesspeople. They won’t want to be seen meeting with someone who consorts with a nightclub owner who is reputed to have mob connections.”
“You know the truth, Mom.”
“What I know is that the longer you live a lie, the more it becomes real. Your uncle—”
“I’m not Uncle Jake and I’m not great-grandfather Cyrus. I’m not going to end up like them.”
“I’m worried about you. You’ve been . . . different since Margaret ended the engagement.”
“No, I’ve been busy. This has nothing to do with what happened a year ago. Mom, we both know that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to work for Dad.”
For the first time there was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line.
“I do realize that there would be problems,” Henrietta admitted. “The two of you are too much alike. Independent and stubborn. But I’m sure something can be worked out. You’ve had enough of adventuring. It’s time to come home, son.”