The Other Lady Vanishes by Amanda Quick
“My business depends on knowing who controls what in Burning Cove.”
“If it helps, I recently sold my interest in the gambling boat.”
“Any particular reason?”
Luther moved a hand in a vague gesture of dismissal. “The gaming business is changing. Reno is where the action is these days, and now that the dam has been completed, Las Vegas may become even more profitable. The offshore casinos won’t be able to compete.”
“Why not?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep a large boat in good repair when it is sitting in salt water day in and day out?”
Raina blinked, a little taken aback. “I never thought about the upkeep problems.”
“Trust me when I tell you that rust and salt corrosion are relentless forces of nature.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I assure you I am content with my nightclub here in Burning Cove,” Luther continued. “I have discovered that there is no need to dabble in illegal sidelines, not as long as I’m selling a reliable fantasy.”
She realized that, although she was still wary of Luther Pell, she was also fascinated by him.
“What, exactly, is the fantasy that you sell?” she asked.
Luther got to his feet and walked to the window of the office. He contemplated the shady plaza.
“When people walk into the Paradise Club, they do not merely get a glimpse of a glamorous world. For the time that they are in my club, they are inhabitants of that world.”
“In other words, they participate in the fantasy?”
“Exactly. That’s the secret of any form of successful entertainment. The audience must be completely involved. At the Paradise Club the patrons know that there is a very good chance that a Hollywood celebrity or a powerful studio executive is sitting in the adjacent booth. A lady can always hope that a famous movie star will ask her to dance. Gentlemen know that they are rubbing shoulders with some very important people, including the occasional mobster.”
She suppressed a shudder. “I understand that a woman might be thrilled to dance with a leading man, but why would anyone want to rub shoulders with a mobster?”
Luther turned around to face her. He looked amused. “Organized crime is the dark side of the legitimate business world, Miss Kirk. The same powerful forces are at work. And power, regardless of the source, is always fascinating.”
“Only to those who have not been burned by it,” she said before she could stop herself. “Sensible people are cautious when dealing with powerful individuals.”
“I take it you have been burned by someone who wielded a lot of power?”
“We are not here to discuss my personal life, Mr. Pell.”
He raised one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “The point I am trying to make is that I do know what I am selling at the Paradise Club.”
“A fantasy.”
“A fantasy with just enough reality infused into it to make it seem very, very real.”
“That is very insightful of you.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am quite sure that you always know exactly what you’re doing, Mr. Pell.” She tapped the pencil on the notepad. “I do have a question for you.”
“You want to know why I haven’t taken this problem to my own security team.”
“Yes. Can I assume that means you suspect one of your security people might be involved in the pilfering?”
“It’s not exactly pilfering, Miss Kirk. We’re talking about small but steady losses that, if they continue, will add up to a considerable amount of money over time. And, yes, there is a possibility that someone on my security force is behind the theft. It would explain how someone is managing to sneak the liquor out of the locked storage room without being detected.” Luther glanced at his watch. “I have another appointment. I’d like to get this matter settled. Will you take my case or not?”
She hesitated only a couple of seconds. A successful conclusion to a case that had been brought to her by one of the most powerful men in Burning Cove would do wonders to establish her agency.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll take the case.”
“Excellent.” Luther smiled a very satisfied smile. “You’ll want a retainer.”
“Of course.” In spite of her uncertainties about Luther Pell, she got an odd little rush of excitement. She had landed her very first case. She was now a real private investigator. “I’ll want to take a look around your club. I’ll need to assess your current security arrangements so that I can analyze possible weak points.”
“Whenever it’s convenient for you,” he agreed. “Just say the word.”
She pretended to study her calendar. The only appointment on it was the one she had made a few minutes ago with Adelaide.
“I’m free tomorrow morning,” she said, trying to make it sound as if she could just barely squeeze him into her busy schedule.
“I’ll tell my men to expect you,” Luther said. “Thank you, Miss Kirk. I’ll look forward to working with you.”
He wrote out a check and left with the air of a man who had accomplished his objective and now had other important things to do.
She sat quietly for a time, thinking about Luther Pell. She was pleased to have the business, but her intuition told her that something did not feel right. After a moment or two she realized what was bothering her.
Luther Pell had not tried to probe deeply into her previous investigative experience. He had accepted her carefully prepared cover story without so much as a single question. That should have been reassuring but for some reason it was not.
She had dealt with dangerous men in the past. If there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that such men did not do business with people whose backgrounds they had not thoroughly researched. She cast her mind back, recalling every aspect of her departure from New York. She had planned her exit carefully and paid attention to every detail. She was almost certain that there was nothing for Luther to discover that might make him question her story.
Almost certain.
Chapter 21
Thelma Leggett opened the trunk of the aging sedan and removed the hatbox containing the stash of secrets. It had been her idea, which she hadn’t shared with Zolanda, to conceal the blackmail materials in the back of the limo. Her theory had been that it was a far more secure location than the villa. Anyone, including the housekeeper who came in daily, could search the big house while the occupants were out. But it was far less likely that a potential thief would look for a hatbox in the back of a car.
There had been another reason for storing the secrets in the limo’s locked trunk. With rare exceptions the car was usually close at hand, where Thelma, in her role as chauffeur, could keep an eye on it. Early that morning when she had dumped the big car in favor of the old sedan she had stolen in a poor neighborhood, she had simply transferred the hatbox from one vehicle to the other. It had been a shame to get rid of the limousine but she had no option. It was far too memorable.
The shabby old cabin on the outskirts of the decaying seaside town had been deserted for a while now. It was filthy and in need of repairs. There were indications that various rodents and a few transients had taken up residence from time to time. Definitely not the sort of classy accommodations she had become accustomed to during the three years that she and Zolanda had been running the psychic-to-the-stars game, Thelma concluded. But the one-room structure had a very big advantage—none of Zolanda’s clients knew about it. No one could follow her here.
The cabin had belonged to her uncle. She remembered him as a cheerful, fun-loving man who had always arrived on his sister’s doorstep with toys and candy for his niece. But he had come home from the Great War a changed man. He had retreated to the cabin, where he had done odd jobs around town while he proceeded to drink himself to death.
There was a faded For Sale sign in the window. She had put it there a couple of years ago but no buyer had come along. In hindsight, that was a very fortunate turn of events.
She set the hatbox on the sagging bed and removed the lid with shaking fingers. She was consumed with a feverish excitement. What she planned to do was extremely dangerous, but she needed cash and she needed it quickly.
She studied the contents of the hatbox and considered her options. She had known that if she disappeared in the wake of Zolanda’s so-called suicide, the cops would want to question her. She was reasonably certain that in the end they would have let her go for lack of evidence. But she did not dare hang around Burning Cove long enough to go through the formalities. She had more immediate problems to worry about.
She had called Adelaide Blake-Brockton that morning from a gas station, anticipating that no one would answer the phone. She had assumed that by dawn Adelaide would be dead or missing. But with Zolanda dead instead, the entire situation had changed. So she had placed the call in an attempt to find out if the plan to get rid of a certain tearoom waitress had been carried out successfully.
No one had been more surprised than she was when Adelaide herself had answered.
Sending Adelaide to the villa that morning to discover Zolanda’s body had been an inspiration of the moment. At the very least it would muddy the waters and help make Brockton look like a suspect. But that plan, too, had gone awry. According to the radio, the tearoom waitress had not been alone when she discovered the dead psychic to the stars. A certain businessman from Los Angeles had been with her.
Adelaide Brockton was a problem for Gill and Paxton, Thelma decided. But Jake Truett was another matter. It was no longer safe to assume that his presence in Burning Cove was a coincidence. He was on the trail of the diary. She had to run as far and as fast as possible, but for that she needed money—a lot of it.
She reached into the hatbox and shuffled through an assortment of potentially damning photographs, letters, journals, and papers. All of the items were valuable, but the one that would be the easiest to cash in immediately was in an envelope at the bottom of the box.
She pawed through the pile of secrets until she found the one she wanted. She took it out of the box and replaced the lid.
The next step was to find a pay phone. There were a lot of people who would be willing to pay a great deal of money for the contents of the envelope, but she knew who would pay the most.
She put the lid on the box, crossed the room, and opened the door. She paused for a moment, thinking. She had another piece of time-sensitive information that was worth a lot to one individual. It could be used only once, and it would not hold its value for long. The smart thing to do would be to sell it first. Easy money and there was no danger involved.
After she had collected that payoff she would arrange to cash in the far more dangerous contents of the envelope.
She glanced at her watch. It was not yet eight o’clock. She was exhausted because she had been on the road since finding Zolanda’s body early that morning and there had been the added stress of stealing the vehicle. But she could not rest. She had two phone calls to make.
Chapter 22
“Are you sure you want to hire me for this job?” Raina said. “According to the radio, the cops are already searching for Thelma Leggett. I hate to say this because I would dearly love the business, but I’m afraid that hiring me would be a waste of your money. The authorities will probably find her long before I do.”
“Mr. Truett thinks the police are likely to conclude that Madam Zolanda’s death was a suicide and that Thelma Leggett found the body, panicked, and fled,” Adelaide said. “If they don’t think they’re looking for a killer, they won’t look very hard.”
She and Jake had discussed exactly what they would tell Raina. Now they were sitting in the plush office of Kirk Investigations, and already the conversation was veering off course.
“I get the feeling you think Leggett murdered her boss,” Raina said. “Zolanda was the one who brought in the cash. Why would the assistant kill the goose that laid the golden eggs?”
It was a reasonable question, Adelaide thought. She looked at Jake, making it clear that it was up to him how much information he wanted to divulge. He was the one chasing a blackmailer.
He gave the matter some thought and then, to her surprise, he responded honestly.
“I have reason to think that Zolanda was running a blackmail business,” he said. “She conned someone I know out of a certain item which, if it fell into the wrong hands, could prove embarrassing to the victim’s family. I have a hunch that Leggett is now in possession of that item.”
Raina looked satisfied with the response, even sympathetic.
“All right, now I understand why you are anxious to get to Leggett before the police do,” she said.
“I’m a little irritated with Thelma Leggett, too,” Adelaide said. “She tried to set me up to look like a suspect if the cops do decide Zolanda was murdered. Not that I’m one to hold a grudge.”
“Of course not,” Raina said. “Only very petty people hold grudges. Still, in your situation I’d be rather annoyed myself. It does occur to me that it is fortunate that you and Mr. Truett both have ironclad alibis, however.”
Adelaide winced. “You’ve heard the gossip already?”
“Well, this is a small town and news travels fast,” Raina said somewhat apologetically. “I’m afraid I also read the special edition of the Burning Cove Herald. It came out an hour ago.”
She gestured toward the folded newspaper on her desk. Adelaide picked it up and opened it. The story carried Irene Ward’s byline.
PSYCHIC TO THE STARS PREDICTS HER OWN DEATH
Early this morning a local tearoom waitress and a visiting businessman from Los Angeles discovered the body of Madam Zolanda, the famous Psychic to the Stars. Your correspondent arrived in time to view the shocking scene and interview the witnesses, who were clearly shaken. Readers will recall that Madam Zolanda predicted blood and death at the end of what proved to be her final performance . . .
Adelaide tossed the paper aside, grimly resigned to the inevitable. “This story is going to go national.”
“As we speak,” Raina said.
“Will you take our case?” Jake asked.
“Yes,” Raina said, “but I have to warn you again, you may be wasting your money.”
“I doubt that the Burning Cove police have what you would call extensive resources outside of this town,” Jake said. “Adelaide tells me that you, on the other hand, have some connections with investigation agencies around the country. She said you were able to call someone in L.A. to confirm my identity.”
Raina switched her attention to Adelaide. “You told him?”
“Yes. Raina, I think an intruder entered my cottage while we were at the theater. I was nervous. Mr. Truett kindly offered to stay with me until morning.”
Raina frowned. “What’s this about an intruder?”
“We don’t know anything about him except that he watched the house for a considerable portion of the night and smoked a few cigarettes,” Jake said. “Found the butts this morning. Evidently he was waiting for me to leave.”
Raina turned back to Adelaide, clearly troubled. “Did you notify the police?”
“I mentioned it to Detective Brandon this morning,” Adelaide said. “He promised to increase the night patrols that go by my cottage.”
“Meanwhile, Miss Brockton has been kind enough to allow me to board at her place until the police find out who was watching her house last night,” Jake added.
“I’ve got an extra bedroom,” Adelaide said quickly. “And I could use the money.”
Raina looked bot
Chapter 23
Conrad Massey put down the phone, stunned. If the woman who had just called him long-distance was telling the truth, it meant that Gill had been lying to him from the start.
He stared at the phone while he struggled to control the acid-hot rage that was threatening to take control of his senses.
“How stupid do you think I am, you double-crossing son of a bitch?” he said.
But there was no one to hear him. He was alone in his study. He shoved himself to his feet and stalked to the window. On a clear day he had a view of San Francisco Bay and the spectacular new bridge they had named for the strait that it spanned—the Golden Gate. But today the scene was locked in fog.
The weather suited his mood.
The woman who had just telephoned him wanted cash in exchange for the location of Adelaide Blake. Fine. He was happy to pay. The question was, why had Gill lied? They had made a deal.
It was possible that Gill simply didn’t want him to interfere, but that didn’t make any sense. Gill needed the cash that he was receiving for keeping Adelaide locked up at Rushbrook.
Conrad clenched one hand into a fist. He had to get control of the situation. He had worked too hard and sacrificed too much to watch his carefully planned future go up in flames. He was trying to rebuild an empire and he needed Adelaide Blake’s inheritance to do it.
His grandfather had come to San Francisco along with the other great men who had made their fortunes in railroads. The old man had stayed to found the shipping business that had established the Masseys as one of the most respected families in the city.
The first Massey mansion had been built on Nob Hill, sharing the elegant neighborhood with the houses of the other tycoons of the day—Stanford, Huntington, Hopkins, and Crocker. The original Massey mansion had been destroyed in the 1906 earthquake and the fire that followed. But like his wealthy neighbors, his grandfather had rebuilt, albeit in a different area of town.