Amalie Vaughn did not approve of him. She had only just met him, but she had already leaped to the conclusion that, like Luther, he had connections to the underworld.
She was right.
He wanted to tell her that there were extenuating circumstances, but he knew from past experience that trying to explain his personal situation was problematic. The dilemma was that he could not risk giving her too much information for a couple of reasons. The first was that if she was not involved in Pickwell’s murder, he did not want to drag her any deeper into the business. The less she knew, the better off she was, at least for now.
The second reason he could not tell her what was going on was that he had no way of knowing yet if he could trust her.
He did, however, allow himself to admire the view as he followed her up the impressive staircase. She moved with a fluid grace and a sure-footed strength and agility that made him think of cats and ballerinas. Luther had mentioned that until recently she had worked as a trapeze artist. He had no trouble believing that. Something in her intelligent, watchful hazel green eyes told him that, like felines and dancers, she knew how to land on her feet.
She was wearing a fluttery little yellow frock that emphasized her lithe, slender figure and a pair of strappy heels that showed off excellent ankles. Her coffee brown hair was parted on one side and fell in deep waves to her shoulders.
At the landing she led the way down the hall and opened the door of number six. She stepped into the room and paused to flip the light switch.
He did a quick survey of the suite. It was expensively furnished with an impressive bed and a padded leather reading chair. A handsome beveled mirror was mounted on the wall above a chest of drawers. The door to the bath stood ajar, revealing a lot of gleaming green and black tile. A suitcase stood on a luggage rack.
“Doesn’t look like anything has been disturbed,” he said. “That’s good.”
“Gosh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to know that you don’t think I stole any of my guest’s things,” Amalie said.
Each word dripped acid. It didn’t take any psychic talent to figure out that she was more than a little annoyed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just stating facts. Don’t take it personally.”
She gave him a steely smile. “Trust me, Jones, I am taking it very personally.”
The atmosphere between them had started out tense and the situation was rapidly deteriorating. That was not helpful. He tried to conjure something that might placate her but he had never been very good at charming others, mostly because that particular skill required a certain amount of judicious lying. He was an excellent liar—brilliant, in fact. But he preferred to avoid it whenever possible. He considered his talent for lying the same way he did his gun—a useful tool that was handy to have available when needed but not the sort of thing a man wanted to rely on routinely.
“I’ll make this as quick as I can,” he said.
“Help yourself.” Amalie swept out a hand to indicate the room. Then she folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the wall. “But I’m going to watch. For all I know you talked your way into my home and place of business so that you can prowl through Pickwell’s things and maybe help yourself to a few items.”
That hurt, mostly because there was some truth in the accusation.
“I thought Brandon cleared me,” Matthias said.
“Brandon did no such thing. He just made it plain that you and Luther Pell are working together. For your information, I took that as a warning, not a testimonial to your sterling character.”
“You don’t trust Luther Pell, either?”
“I have never met the man but I’ve heard the rumors about him. It’s obvious that what he says goes in this town, at least as far as the local police are concerned.”
Matthias realized that he was clenching his back teeth but he did not have the time to try to convince her that Pell was an upstanding member of the community. Actually, it was highly doubtful that he could have made her believe that, because Luther Pell was not exactly as pure as the new-driven snow. And neither am I, he thought.
He gave up on the small talk and focused on the suitcase. It was unlocked, which told him that there was nothing inside that he would find useful. When he raised the lid, he saw some neatly folded underwear, a clean shirt, and a Dopp kit, which contained an assortment of masculine toiletries, including a shaving kit.
Amalie straightened away from the wall, unfolded her arms, and walked closer to the suitcase.
“He didn’t unpack all of his things,” she said. She sounded surprised. “He did seem very tense and anxious.”
“Did he tell you how long he planned to stay?” Matthias asked.
“The reservation was for two nights. He said that he was expecting a lot of publicity after the demonstration and he wanted to be available to give interviews to reporters. Pickwell was my very first guest. Unfortunately I didn’t ask for payment in advance.”
Matthias took a penknife out of his pocket, snapped it open, and slit the suitcase lining.
“What are you doing?” Amalie yelped. “That’s Dr. Pickwell’s personal property.”
“I told you, Pickwell is dead.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can destroy his possessions. His family will probably arrive in a day or so to claim his things. What am I supposed to tell them when they see that someone took a knife to his suitcase?”
“Send them to me.”
There was no sign of a false bottom or a secret compartment in the suitcase. He went to the closet. When he opened the door he saw a navy blue jacket and a pair of cream-colored trousers.
“Those were the clothes he was wearing when he arrived on the train today,” Amalie said. “I remember asking him about the robot. He said he had shipped it in a wooden crate that was taken from the baggage car to the theater by his assistant.”
Matthias glanced at her. “The assistant’s name is Charlie Hubbard. He disappeared tonight. The police are looking for him. Did Pickwell book a room for Hubbard?”
“No, at least not here at my inn. He said that his assistant was going to stay with the robot at all times until the demonstration. I got the feeling Hubbard’s job was to guard Futuro.”
“Interesting.”
“Pickwell may have put Hubbard up at a less expensive hotel or auto court. The Hidden Beach is not exactly the cheapest place in town,” Amalie said. “Do the police think he had something to do with Futuro murdering Pickwell?”
“Hubbard was either involved or else he had the bad luck to be an innocent bystander who knew too much for his own good. He’s the one person who was in a position to know what was going on backstage.”
“There was no one else behind the curtain?”
“No, just Hubbard. The manager at the Palace said Pickwell insisted that only his assistant be allowed backstage.”
“Pickwell was probably afraid that someone might steal Futuro,” Amalie said.
“I doubt it. The thing must weigh nearly two hundred pounds. It would be hard to carry it off without drawing a lot of attention. Best guess? Hubbard is connected to the shooting. He was the last person to have access to the robot. One way or another I doubt he’ll be alive for long.”
“Why do you say that?” Amalie whispered, clearly stunned.
“He played his part and is no longer needed.”
“Who doesn’t need him?”
“Forget it,” Matthias said. “How many suitcases did Pickwell have with him when he checked in?”
Amalie concentrated, visibly trying to refocus her thoughts. “Two. I helped him with his luggage. One was the grip the robot carried onstage. It was very heavy. Dr. Pickwell was alarmed when I went to pick it up. He insisted on carrying it upstairs himself. I thought he was being a gentleman.”
“No, he was protecting what was inside. He didn’t want to let it out of his sight, not even for a moment.”
“He said it contained some equipment that he needed for the demonstration. Why are you so interested in Pickwell’s luggage?”
“Because there seem to be a number of suitcases floating around in this affair.”
Amalie shuddered. “This is all so bizarre. I still can’t bring myself to believe that Dr. Pickwell was murdered by a robot.”
“Neither can I.”
Amalie eyed him thoughtfully. “Then what, exactly, did happen tonight?”
“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 if 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.”