“This is a disaster,” Hazel announced. “We are ruined. Utterly destroyed. We can’t possibly survive such a catastrophe.”
“We will figure it out,” Amalie said. “We have to figure it out.”
“No,” Hazel wailed, “we’re finished. Mark my words, by tomorrow morning everyone in town will be saying this place really is cursed. We can’t survive rumors like that.”
She strode across the grandly furnished front room of the villa and came to a halt at the black lacquer liquor cabinet. Seizing a bottle of brandy, she yanked out the stopper and splashed a liberal amount of the contents into a glass. She downed a fortifying swallow and surveyed the surroundings.
“Damn,” she said. “It all seemed so perfect.”
When it came to high drama, Amalie reflected, no Hollywood actress could outshine Hazel Vaughn. She had once been a star attraction in the Ramsey Circus, one of the Fabulous Flying Vaughns. She had dazzled crowds with her daring tricks. She was middle-aged now but she still knew how to command an audience.
Amalie eyed the brandy and decided that she needed some, too. She pushed herself up out of the massive leather sofa and went to the liquor cabinet. Hoisting the bottle, she poured herself a stiff shot.
“You know what they say about something that seems too good to be true,” she said.
“If we had the cash, I’d get a lawyer and sue the real estate agent who sold us this place.”
“Well, we don’t have the money and I doubt if we would win anyway.” Amalie contemplated the big room. “It really is ideal for the kind of inn I imagined.”
In spite of the looming disaster, she loved the mansion. She still could not believe that she owned such an amazing dream house. The large villa on Ocean View Lane looked as if it had been made to order for a Hollywood movie, a film set in the sun-splashed Mediterranean. With its spacious, high-ceilinged rooms, massive stone fireplace, richly paneled walls, and beautiful tile work, it was a grand example of the Spanish colonial revival style. Crowned with a parapet roof clad in red tiles, the house rose three stories above the spacious walled grounds.
The gardens were lush and green. Orange and grapefruit trees perfumed the air. A shady grape arbor provided a delightful retreat. At the rear of the house a glass-and-iron conservatory and a broad patio made a beautiful setting in which to serve breakfast and tea to guests.
The two floors above the ground floor had been designed to accommodate a large number of houseguests for a Hollywood mogul who had planned to entertain on a lavish scale.
An expansive view of the sparkling Pacific Ocean and easy access to a secluded beach completed the gracious scene.
Perfect, Amalie thought. Except for the stupid curse.
“The agent should have warned you about the history of this villa,” Hazel said. “If you had known that a famous Hollywood psychic jumped off the roof a few months ago, you would never have gone through with the purchase.”
“You’re wrong, Hazel.” Amalie took a sip of brandy and simultaneously put up a hand, palm out. “I would have bought it regardless. I couldn’t turn down such an incredible bargain.”
She had sunk the full amount of the small inheritance she had received in the wake of her parents’ deaths into the villa. She had to make the inn successful.
“The only reason the owner was willing to sell so cheap was because he knew full well he couldn’t get much for it, not after that psychic, Madam Zolanda, jumped off the roof,” Hazel said.
“In time, people will forget about the psychic who died here.”
“Maybe,” Hazel allowed. “But now that our first paying guest has been murdered by his own robot in front of a packed theater, we will never be able to attract customers.”
Amalie squared her shoulders. “We have no choice but to figure out how to turn a profit. We will find a way to make the Hidden Beach a premier place to stay in Burning Cove.”
“Got any ideas?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m sure something will come to me.” Amalie swallowed some more brandy and set the glass down. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go upstairs and take a look around Pickwell’s room.”
“It’s after midnight,” Hazel said. “We can pack up his things tomorrow. There’s no rush.”
“I think we can expect a visit from the police first thing in the morning,” Amalie said. “I want to examine the room before they show up.”
Hazel stared at her. “The police?”
“If Pickwell does not survive, his death will officially become a homicide.”
“Homicide by robot.” Hazel shuddered. “Gives a person the creeps, it does. It was like a scene out of a horror movie.”
Amalie thought about that for a beat. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?”
“I will never forget what happened onstage tonight. I still can’t believe that machine murdered its inventor.”
“I find it hard to believe, too,” Amalie said.
She went behind the polished wooden bar that she and Hazel had decided to use as a front desk and opened the door to the small office that had once served as a coat closet. She took a key down off a brass hook.
“What do you expect to find?” Hazel asked.
“I have no idea.” Amalie crossed the lobby to the grand staircase. She paused, one hand on an ornate newel post, and looked back at Hazel. “But that scene onstage tonight has been bothering me.”
“I’m sure it bothered everyone.” Hazel narrowed her eyes. “What, in particular, has you worried? Besides the fact that we will probably be bankrupt within the month, I mean.”
“You said it yourself—the murder was like a scene out of a horror movie.”
Hazel had been about to pour herself some more brandy. She hesitated. “Meaning?”
“Movies are elaborate illusions designed to fool an audience. Maybe we should not believe everything we thought we saw onstage tonight.”
“Huh.” Hazel appeared intrigued. “Do you think Dr. Pickwell faked his own murder?”
Amalie thought about the grim expressions she had seen on the faces of Oliver Ward and Luther Pell. Then she remembered the stranger who had worn a shoulder holster under his evening jacket.
“I am almost positive that Pickwell was shot with real bullets tonight,” she said. “But I am not so sure that the robot is to blame.”
“How can you say that? We saw that thing shoot Pickwell.”
“Maybe we saw what we were meant to see. Think about it, Hazel. You and I both know how easy it is to fool an audience.”
“True. But that blood looked real.”
“I agree.”
Hazel pursed her lips. “Don’t you think it was strange that those two mob guys, Pell and his friend, were the first to rush down to the stage?”
“Oliver Ward and his wife headed for the stage, too.”
“Sure, but Irene Ward is a crime reporter. It makes sense that she would want the story and that her husband would want to keep an eye on her. There was no way to know if that robot would come back and shoot some more people. But why did Pell and that stranger get involved?”
“I have no idea,” Amalie said.
Hazel heaved a sigh and sank into one of the oversized chairs. She gazed morosely into the unlit fireplace.
“I suppose this means we’re going to get stiffed on the room rent,” she said. “Can’t collect from a dead man.”
“We don’t know for sure that Pickwell is dead,” Amalie said, trying to stay optimistic. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time. It’s not like we’ve got a villa full of paying guests to look after.”
Amalie went quickly up the staircase. All things considered, it had been a very odd evening. She did not want to admit it, but Hazel might be right. Perhaps the disaster at the Palace tonight would hurt future business.
When she reached the landing, she turned and went down the hall. She and Hazel had made certain to give Pickwell the best suite in the villa.
Make that the second-best suite.
Strictly speaking, number six wasn’t the most luxurious room in the mansion. That title belonged to the suite that had been used by Madam Zolanda, and after one quick look, Amalie and Hazel had decided not to rent it out to guests. The psychic’s belongings—her colorful wardrobe, her personal effects, jewelry, costumes, and shoes—were still there.
The previous owner of the villa had instructed the real estate agent to sell the property with all of its contents. When Amalie had taken possession of the mansion, she had become the new owner of everything in Zolanda’s suite. There were no truly valuable baubles inside, but there were several nice pieces of jewelry, and some of the scarves and gowns were made of expensive materials. The plan was to discreetly sell a pair of earrings or a bracelet or perhaps a turban or a gown if and when the inn’s financial situation grew truly desperate.
She was in the process of sliding the key into the lock of number six when she heard the muffled rumble of a powerful engine turning into the drive. She listened closely. An expensive car, she decided. Not the police, then.
She let herself into the darkened room and hurried across the carpet to the French doors that opened onto the small balcony.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the doors and went out onto the balcony. Careful not to look straight down into the dense shadows of the gardens, she gripped the wrought iron railing and focused on the long sweep of the drive.
The twin beams of brilliant headlights slashed the night, moving swiftly toward the entrance of the villa.
A wave of apprehension came over her. She was very sure that whoever was behind the wheel of the speedster was not bringing good news.
She hurried back inside, paused to close the balcony doors, and went down the hall. The doorbell chimed just as she reached the top of the staircase. She saw Hazel rush toward the front door.
“I wonder who that can be?” Hazel said. “Sounds like an expensive car. Maybe it’s someone who just arrived from L.A. and wants a room because the Burning Cove Hotel is full. Perhaps we aren’t doomed, after all.”
“Hazel, wait . . .” Amalie said.
But she was too late. Hazel was already opening the big front door.
“Welcome to the Hidden Beach Inn,” she sang out. “You’re in luck. I believe we might have one room left . . . Oh.”
From where she stood at the top of the staircase, Amalie could see the man who stood on the front steps. The shock of recognition made her go cold. Luther Pell’s mysterious associate, the stranger who wore a gun under his evening jacket, loomed in the doorway.
“Thank you,” he said. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour. My name is Matthias Jones. May I come in?”
His voice, dark and intriguing, sent little frissons of electricity across the back of Amalie’s neck. She had never responded to a man’s voice in quite that way. It probably ought to worry her.
“Well, you’re here,” Hazel said, no longer the gracious innkeeper. “You might as well come in.”
“Thank you,” Matthias said.
He moved into the front hall and inclined his head toward Hazel, gravely polite. The niceties out of the way, he immediately switched his attention to Amalie. He watched her descend the staircase with an expression that somehow combined cool interest with even colder determination. Her intuition warned her that he was trying to decide if she was going to be a problem for him.
She could have told him that the answer was yes.
Fair enough, she thought. She had already concluded that he was going to be trouble for her.
Matthias Jones was lean and broad-shouldered with the sort of strong, fierce features that would never qualify as handsome. The bold nose, grim jaw, and smoldering amber eyes could more accurately be described as predatory. He was not unusually tall yet he somehow dominated the room.
He wore the same evening clothes he’d had on earlier that evening—the same crisply pleated trousers, the same white shirt, the same black bow tie. He was also wearing the same evening jacket that had been expertly tailored to conceal a shoulder holster. That meant he probably still wore the gun.
She was very sure that he was not going to leave until he was ready to do so. Matthias Jones was both an immovable object and an irresistible force.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Jones?” she asked, going for the cool, calm, always-in-command attitude of a professional innkeeper.
“I understand that Dr. Norman Pickwell was a guest here,” Matthias said. “I want to take a look around his room.”
Hazel’s brief moment of hope had given way to deep suspicion. “Are you a cop?”
Circus people and law enforcement had a long history of a fraught relationship, to say the least. When the circus was in town, it was all too easy for the police to blame the highly transient crews of roustabouts and performers for any crimes that occurred while they were around. Got your pocket picked while you were watching the high wire act? Did a few tools go missing off your back porch? Blame the circus people.
“No,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”
That information should have come as a relief, Amalie thought. Instead it just confirmed her earlier suspicion. Matthias Jones was most likely connected to the mob.
“If you’re not a detective,” she said, “why should we let you look at Dr. Pickwell’s room?”
Matthias regarded her with eyes that revealed nothing except glacial-cold control.
“Pickwell didn’t make it,” he said. “He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
Hazel sighed. “Oh, dear.”
Amalie did not take her attention off Matthias.
“I see,” she said. “I’m very sorry to hear that. But I still don’t understand why we should allow you to examine his belongings.”
“It’s a long story and one I’m not at liberty to discuss. All I can tell you is that I’m tracking a killer. I have reason to believe that he murdered Pickwell tonight.”
Hazel’s brows snapped together. “So, you are a detective?”
“I thought I made it clear,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m conducting an investigation for a friend.”
Amalie eyed him. “You’re a private investigator?”
“Something like that.”
“What is there to investigate?” Hazel demanded. “Futuro, the robot, shot Dr. Pickwell. We saw the whole thing. Everyone in the audience was a witness, including you.”
“The robot pulled the trigger of the gun,” Matthias said. “But I’m certain that the person I’m after arranged for that to happen.”
“How is that possible?” Amalie said.
“I don’t know,” Matthias said. “With luck, there will be something in Pickwell’s room that will answer that question.”
He reached inside his jacket. Amalie stopped breathing.
But Matthias did not pull out his gun. Instead he handed her a card with a phone number on it.
“Call that number,” he said.
She started breathing again. “Who is going to answer?”
“A detective with the Burning Cove police. His name is Brandon. He’s in charge of the investigation into Pickwell’s death. He can assure you that I’m authorized to examine Pickwell’s room.”
Amalie looked at Hazel, who shrugged.
“Make the call,” Hazel said. “We don’t need any more trouble.”
Amalie crossed the room to the front desk and picked up the receiver of the enameled white and gold telephone. The ornate phone, along with the rest of the furnishings, had come with the villa.
She dialed the number. A gruff, masculine voice answered.
“Brandon. Homicide.”
Amalie heard the clacking of typewriter keys and masculine voices in the background.
“This is Amalie Vaughn at the Hidden Beach Inn,” she said. “I’ve got a Mr. Matthias Jones here. He says that he has the authority to examine the guest room that was booked by Dr. Pickwell. Is that correct?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said. He sounded weary. “Let Jones look at whatever he wants.”
“I don’t understand,” Amalie said. “If this is police business, why aren’t you or someone else from the department handling the investigation?”
“Because it’s not police business, thank the Almighty. It’s Luther Pell’s personal business. That means that people like you and me want to stay as far away from it as possible. Understand?”
“Yes,” Amalie said, “I certainly do understand. There is nothing I would like better than to stay out of Luther Pell’s business, but I seem to have landed in the middle of it.”
There was a long sigh on the other end of the line.
“I know. Sorry about that, Miss Vaughn. My advice? Cooperate with Jones. The sooner he gets his look around Pickwell’s room, the sooner he’ll leave you alone.”
“Thank you for that very helpful advice, Detective Brandon.”
She lowered the receiver into the cradle and looked at Matthias Jones.
“Follow me,” she said.
“Thanks,” Matthias said. “I appreciate the cooperation.”
“Don’t thank me. Hazel and I are new in town but we’ve been here long enough to figure out how things work. You’re a friend of Luther Pell’s and Pell is one of the people who control this town. That means he also controls the Burning Cove Police Department.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“No, Mr. Jones,” Amalie said. “It’s a fact of life here in Burning Cove.”