The first indication that her business had undergone a dramatic improvement was the sight of the gleaming limousine parked in front of the entrance.
There was no sign of Matthias Jones’s sleek maroon Packard.
Amalie brought her Hudson coupe to a halt, shut down the engine, and watched in amazement as a man got out from behind the wheel of the limo. Sunglasses and a black cap concealed his eyes. A gold earring glinted in one ear. He wore a black leather vest studded with a lot of steel studs, black trousers, and black boots. The sleeveless vest revealed muscular arms covered in tattoos.
He looked at Amalie, touched his black cap with two fingers to acknowledge her presence, and proceeded to open the rear door of the large vehicle.
The chauffeur was unusual enough to draw a second glance, but the tall, lean man with the aristocratic profile who emerged from the limo had the power to make anyone who went to the movies stop in her tracks. Vincent Hyde’s mane of jet-black hair was swept straight back from a sharp widow’s peak. It gleamed with a judicious application of oil. His lean, ascetic face, thick dark brows, and riveting eyes were even more mesmerizing in person than they were on the silver screen.
He wore an impeccably tailored navy blue blazer, a crisp white shirt, and white trousers. The ensemble was accented with a blue silk scarf at the throat rather than a more traditional tie. His gold watch flashed in the sun. He was at once darkly ominous and exotically sensual. It was easy to imagine him in the dashing black cape that he always wore in his role as the title character in the long-running Mad Doctor X series of films.
Amalie could hardly believe her eyes. Vincent Hyde, the legendary star of a string of horror movies, was about to walk through the front door of the Hidden Beach Inn. She couldn’t wait to tell Hazel. Hollywood had come calling.
She grabbed the sack of groceries she had just purchased, leaped out of the Hudson, and hurried toward the entrance of the inn.
“Welcome to the Hidden Beach, Mr. Hyde,” she said. “I’m Amalie Vaughn, the proprietor.”
“Ah, you recognize me.” Vincent swept her a courtly bow. “I am honored. I am also delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Vaughn.”
Amalie couldn’t place the accent—it sounded vaguely European to her, but she was no expert. Vincent Hyde talked the way the classy characters did in the movies.
“I think I’ve seen almost every movie that you’ve made,” Amalie said. “Mad Doctor X and the Castle of Shadows was thrilling.”
“Thank you.” Vincent smiled a cool, slightly bored smile. “I do apologize for landing on your doorstep with no reservation, but this morning at breakfast, as I was reading the paper, I was seized with the inspiration to come to Burning Cove today.”
“Really?”
“I do hope that you will be able to accommodate me.”
“I’m sure we can find a room for you, Mr. Hyde. I have a lovely corner suite with an excellent view of the ocean.”
“I will also need a room for Jasper here.” Vincent did not bother to glance at the chauffeur. “Nothing special, but I do require that he be conveniently located. I never know when I will need him, you see. In addition to his chauffeur duties, he serves as my bodyguard. Some fans can be, shall we say, overenthusiastic.”
“I understand.”
She smiled at Jasper, who stood stiffly near the gleaming fender of the limo.
He seemed startled by her welcoming smile. His expression tightened briefly in confusion, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Would the room directly across the hall from Mr. Hyde’s suite do for you?” she asked.
Jasper appeared dumbfounded at having been personally addressed.
“Uh,” he said.
He closed his mouth and cast his boss an uneasy look, waiting for orders.
“The room across the hall sounds ideal, Miss Vaughn,” Vincent said. “You mustn’t be afraid of Jasper. I do realize that he bears a striking resemblance to Karloff’s extremely clumsy version of Frankenstein’s lumbering creature. But that’s why I hired him, you see. I assure you my pet monster is under my complete control at all times.”
Appalled, Amalie looked at Jasper. She thought his jaw clenched, but aside from that almost invisible action he remained impassive. She shifted the grocery sack to one arm and held out her hand.
“I didn’t catch your last name,” she said.
Jasper stared at her hand.
“Calloway, ma’am,” he said. “Jasper Calloway.”
His voice was a rough rasp. There was a faint indication of a western drawl. She guessed that he had probably grown up on a farm or a ranch in Arizona or California.
“Welcome to the Hidden Beach Inn, Mr. Calloway,” she said.
Gingerly he closed his big hand around her fingers. He shook hands with exquisite care, as if he was afraid he might hurt her.
“Ma’am,” he said. He retrieved his hand and plucked the grocery sack from her arm. “Let me take care of that for you.”
“Thanks,” Amalie said. “I appreciate it.” Briskly she turned back to Vincent, who had watched the small scene with an impatient air. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Hyde, I’ll get you registered and show you to your suite.”
Vincent once again slipped into his invisible cloak of polished, practiced charm.
“Thank you, Miss Vaughn. I must admit I’m looking forward to experiencing the atmosphere of your establishment.”
Amalie had just gotten her key into the lock on the door. She paused. “You want to experience the atmosphere of my inn?”
“I will be frank, Miss Vaughn. I came here for artistic inspiration.”
“I see.” She opened the door and moved into the tiled foyer. “You came for the fresh seaside air and our tranquil gardens. I think you will find the atmosphere here at the Hidden Beach very conducive to relaxation. I can only imagine the pressures and demands of a highly successful film career such as yours.”
“I must tell you that relaxation is not why I’m here, Miss Vaughn.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re quite right about the demands of my professional life. At the moment they are extremely severe. I am hoping that your charming villa will be just what the doctor ordered, so to speak.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Hyde.”
Vincent’s smile was cold and rather grim. “I’m sure you’re aware that the Hidden Beach Inn has been in the news lately. There was the mysterious death of Madam Zolanda, a charming psychic whom I had reason to consult on a couple of occasions. And now your first guest was murdered in a spectacular fashion in front of an audience by a robot, of all things.”
Amalie’s spirits sank. This conversation was not going well. She went behind the front desk and confronted Vincent with as much cool resolve as she could muster.
“I fail to see what those two extremely unfortunate incidents have to do with your decision to stay here at the Hidden Beach Inn, Mr. Hyde,” she said.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Vincent said. “I’m hoping that the strange and rather eerie events that have occurred here will help me prepare for my next role. The studio and I are still in negotiations, but I have every expectation of being signed for the lead in a vampire film. The working title is Nightmare Lane.”
Amalie reminded herself of the advice she had quoted to Hazel. If something seems too good to be true . . .
“If you’re in search of a dark, depressing atmosphere, I’m afraid you’re due to be very disappointed,” she said. “Here at the Hidden Beach Inn we strive to provide our guests with an idyllic seaside experience.”
Vincent’s eyes glittered with icy amusement. “Perhaps you haven’t seen today’s edition of Hollywood Whispers?”
“I’ve been a little busy lately.”
“Allow me.” Vincent snapped his fingers. “Jasper, show Miss Vaughn the copy of Whispers that I was reading on the way here today.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Hyde.” Jasper looked at Amalie. “Where would you like me to put these groceries, Miss Vaughn?”
“Please set them down on the desk. I’ll deal with them later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jasper put the sack down and hurried back outside. When he reappeared a moment later, he had a folded newspaper in his hand. Without a word he put the paper on the front desk in front of Amalie.
“Thank you,” she said.
Jasper inclined his head once, in a short, jerky manner, and retreated a couple of steps.
“It was the latest Lorraine Pierce column that compelled me,” Vincent said. “Front page. You can’t miss it.”
Amalie winced when she saw the headline.
THE CURSE OF MADAM ZOLANDA?
MANSION WHERE FAMOUS PSYCHIC DIED UNDER
MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM.
Your correspondent has learned that the recent shocking murder of Dr. Norman Pickwell, the inventor who was gunned down by his own robot, has an ominous connection to a certain villa in Burning Cove, California.
Readers will recall that it was not long ago that Madam Zolanda, the famous Psychic to the Stars, predicted her own death onstage at the Palace, a popular theater in Burning Cove. The morning after the performance her body was discovered on the patio of the villa. The official verdict was suicide but there were many who questioned that conclusion at the time and still do.
But now your humble correspondent is hearing whispers that the doomed Dr. Pickwell was a guest at the very same villa where the Psychic to the Stars died.
Is it any wonder that the residents of Burning Cove have come up with a new name for the Hidden Beach Inn? Rumor has it that the locals have begun referring to the villa as the “Psychic Curse Mansion.” Who will be the next victim?
How much worse could the publicity disaster get? Amalie wondered.
Reminding herself that she had a paying customer standing in front of her, she folded the newspaper with short, crisp motions and gave Vincent her dazzle-the-audience smile.
“You do realize that Miss Pierce’s column is pure nonsense, I assume?” she said.
Vincent chuckled. “Certainly, but that is precisely the point. It occurs to me that you and I are both in a position to benefit from the rumors swirling around your little inn.”
“The only rumors I’ve noticed are those in Miss Pierce’s column.”
Vincent heaved a languid sigh, glanced at the paper, and shook his head in a sorrowful manner.
“You must believe me when I tell you that I have spent enough time in Hollywood to know that the story in Pierce’s column this morning will catch fire. I wouldn’t be surprised if it is going national as we speak.”
Amalie stared at him, shocked. “Do you really think so?”
“I can almost guarantee it, Miss Vaughn. Lorraine Pierce is one of the most widely read gossip columnists in Hollywood. Her goal is to become the most widely read columnist in the country.”
“She’s ambitious?”
Vincent flashed a wry, world-weary smile. “Everyone in Hollywood is ambitious, Miss Vaughn.”
Amalie squared her shoulders. “I’m ambitious, too. I am, in fact, trying very hard to get my business up and running so that I can keep myself and my aunt in groceries.”
“Think of Pierce’s column as publicity.”
Amalie stabbed the paper a few times with her forefinger. “This kind of creepy publicity is not helpful.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Vincent said. He winked. “Take it from me, almost any kind of publicity is better than no publicity.”
Something in his tone gave her pause.
“Almost any kind?” she repeated.
“There is very little in the way of publicity that can kill a Hollywood career, Miss Vaughn. Most gossip simply adds fuel to the fire. But there are one or two lines that cannot be crossed, not if one hopes to survive in the industry.”
“Only one or two?”
“Indeed.” Vincent winked. “And I am happy to tell you that trivial things such as bizarre murders and a psychic’s curse from beyond the grave are not on that very short list. I think you will discover that my decision to choose your inn over so many other fine establishments here in Burning Cove will result in some excellent publicity for both of us. Think of us as a team, Miss Vaughn.”
Amalie eyed the copy of Hollywood Whispers.
“The press I’m getting at the moment couldn’t get much worse,” she said.
“Take it from someone who has been handling the press for years. The trick to surviving is to turn the bad news to your advantage. I can help you do that.”
It dawned on Amalie that, in spite of the freakish publicity storm that had struck the Hidden Beach Inn, she now had three paying guests—a probable mobster, a Hollywood actor known for his horror pictures, and said actor’s chauffeur. That was precisely three more guests than she’d had yesterday morning. If all of them paid their bills, she and Hazel just might make it through the month without having to dip into Madam Zolanda’s treasure chest.
She gave Vincent one of her showtime smiles.
“You have a point, Mr. Hyde. Things may be looking up for the Hidden Beach Inn, after all.”
“That’s the spirit, Miss Vaughn. Can I have my key now?”
“Yes, of course.” She opened the register to the very first page and handed Vincent a pen. “If you and Mr. Calloway would be good enough to sign in, I’ll get your keys and show you both to your rooms.”
Vincent took the pen and looked down at the register page. He chuckled.
“This is rather exciting, you know,” he said, scrawling his name.
Amalie ducked into the office to get the keys.
“How is that?” she asked through the partially open door.
“There are only two other names on this register, and one of them, that of Dr. Norman Pickwell, belongs to a man murdered by a robot.” Vincent put down the pen and looked up with a smile that would have done credit to Mad Doctor X. “Sends a little chill across the back of one’s neck, doesn’t it?”