The Other Lady Vanishes

  Detective Brandon turned away from the body and walked toward them. Brandon was a solid-looking man with the face of a world-weary cop who did his best to do his job. His tie was badly knotted and his jacket was unfastened, revealing his holstered gun. He came to a halt, pushed his hat back on his head, and glanced up at the roof, squinting a little.

  “Hard to believe she’d jump just to make her prediction come true,” he said.

  “Yes,” Jake said. “That is hard to believe. “

  Brandon switched his attention to Adelaide. “I find it interesting that the missing assistant called you this morning.”

  “Who else could be counted on to come rushing over here at such an early hour with an emergency packet of tea?” Adelaide said. “I think Thelma Leggett wanted me to find the body.”

  “Uh-huh,” Brandon said. “That theory would seem to indicate that Thelma Leggett knows exactly how Madam Zolanda died.”

  “Yes, it does,” Jake said. “She evidently didn’t know if you would accept suicide as the cause of death. Leggett wanted a backup plan. She doesn’t want you to look for her.”

  “Yeah.” Brandon studied Adelaide again. “Good thing for you that you’ve got a real solid alibi, what with you and Mr. Truett having spent the night together and coming over here together this morning.”

  Adelaide gave him a cold look.

  “I think we need to clarify a few things here, Detective,” she said. “Mr. Truett and I went to see Zolanda’s performance last night. Afterward, Mr. Truett took me home and then went to his cottage. I was getting ready for bed when I got the feeling that there had been an intruder in my house while I was out. I turned on every light. Mr. Truett noticed and came over to see if everything was all right. When we both decided that everything was not all right, Mr. Truett stayed until dawn.”

  Brandon narrowed his eyes. “Anything missing?”

  “No,” Adelaide said. “A window was open in the laundry room. I think there was an intruder but he didn’t steal anything as far as I can tell.”

  Brandon nodded sagely. “But Mr. Truett here kept you company for the rest of the night because you were nervous.”

  “For your information,” Adelaide said, “Mr. Truett and I spent the night chatting and playing cards.”

  “Is that so?” Brandon did not bother to hide his skepticism. He switched his cop glare to Jake. “And you were still at Miss Brockton’s place when she got the call from Thelma Leggett?”

  “When it got light, I decided to take a look around Adelaide’s cottage before I went back to my place,” Jake said. “Found a couple of cigarette butts and an empty matchbook out behind the garage. I think someone spent a good portion of the night watching Miss Brockton’s house.”

  “There was a lot of fog late last night,” Brandon countered. “Maybe some vagrant decided to spend the night inside a nice dry garage.”

  “In which case,” Jake said, “the cigarette butts and the matchbook probably would have been left inside the garage. I found them on the outside, at the back. A man could have stood there smoking for a couple of hours, and no one inside the house would have noticed.”

  Brandon frowned at Adelaide. “You sure you had an intruder last night?”

  “I can’t be absolutely positive,” she admitted.

  “Yeah, well, let me know if you see anything else that makes you nervous. In the meantime I’ll tell the night patrols to make a few extra trips past your place.”

  “Thank you,” Adelaide said. “I would appreciate it.”

  The low growl of a car rumbled in the drive at the front of the mansion. The engine was shut down immediately. A car door slammed. Seconds later, rapid footsteps sounded on the garden path.

  “Just what I needed,” Brandon grumbled. “Meet the new crime beat reporter at the Herald.”

  A woman dressed in fashionable full-legged trousers and a pale yellow silk blouse trimmed with a silk tie raced into view. Her shoulder-length hair was set in the deep waves of the newest Hollywood style. She had a leather-bound stenographer’s notebook and a pencil in one hand. She zeroed in on Brandon and came to a halt in front of him.

  “A fine pal you are, Detective,” she said, somewhat breathless. “If Sergeant Morgan hadn’t called me, I’d still be eating breakfast out on the patio with Oliver. What’s going on?”

  Brandon waved a hand at Adelaide and Jake. “Mrs. Ward, allow me to introduce you to Adelaide Brockton. She’s a waitress at the Refresh Tearoom. This is her neighbor out on Crescent Beach, Jake Truett.”

  Adelaide smiled. “No need for an introduction. Irene and I have met.”

  “Refresh has the best tea and pastries in Burning Cove,” Irene said. She peered at Jake. “But this is the first time I’ve met you. I’m with the Burning Cove Herald. I cover the crime beat.”

  “Thought you didn’t have much crime in this town,” Jake said.

  “You’d be surprised,” Irene said. She looked at Adelaide. “Sergeant Morgan told me that you and Mr. Truett found the body. Are you sure it was Madam Zolanda?”

  Adelaide waved a hand toward the scene on the patio. Dr. Skipton was getting ready to pull a sheet over the body. “Take a look for yourself.”

  Irene glanced at the body on the stretcher. “Oh, yes. I see what you mean. She really was a pretty woman, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Adelaide said.

  “I wonder why she chose to become the psychic to the stars instead of trying to become a star herself,” Irene mused. “Maybe she didn’t have any talent.”

  “She had plenty of talent, if you ask me,” Adelaide said. “Just think of how well she played the psychic role.”

  “You’re right.” Irene used a pencil to jot down some notes. “She was pretty enough and she had talent, but she didn’t have that special something that stars like Vera Westlake have, did she?”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Brandon said. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Irene promised.

  “Lucky me,” Brandon muttered.

  He set off at a brisk pace and disappeared into the house.

  Irene turned back to Adelaide. “Talk to me. What happened here?”

  “It looks like Madam Zolanda may have jumped or was pushed off the roof of the villa sometime during the night,” Adelaide explained. “That’s really all we know. The only reason we’re here is because I got a call from Zolanda’s assistant, Thelma Leggett, early this morning. She claimed Zolanda was very upset and needed some of her special tea.”

  “Hmm.” Irene glanced back at the door of the conservatory. “Is Leggett inside the house?”

  “No,” Jake said. “She seems to have disappeared.”

  “And Madam Zolanda is dead.” Irene snapped her notebook closed. “Looks like I’ve already got my headline. Psychic to the Stars Predicts Her Own Death.”

  “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to resist that one,” Adelaide said.

  Chapter 19

  “We should talk,” Jake said.

  Adelaide was seated in the passenger seat of the speedster, clutching the packet of Enlightenment tea and her handbag. She was very aware of the crystal perfume bottle stopper inside her bag.

  She gave Jake a quick, uneasy glance. He did not take his eyes off the upcoming curve in Cliff Road. His driving, like everything else he did, had an easy, fluid, masculine grace.

  “All right,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?”

  She was starting to feel as if she was ensnared in a spider’s web. Intuition warned her that the safest course of action was to say as little as possible. Jake had his own priorities—he was after the missing diary. But she had priorities, too. At all costs she had to keep her history at Rushbrook Sanitarium a secret. She could not expect him to believe a word she said—not if he found out that she had escaped from an asylu
m for the insane.

  Jake slowed the car, turned off onto a side road, and came to a stop overlooking a small, secluded beach.

  With cool deliberation he shut down the engine and turned to face her. He rested his left hand casually on the wooden steering wheel. His right arm settled on the back of the seat, a position that put his hand directly behind her head.

  “The situation is getting complicated,” he said.

  “You mean because Thelma Leggett has disappeared with that diary you’re after?”

  “It’s not just that she’s gone,” Jake said. “Until this morning I’ve been assuming that I was chasing a blackmailer. I’m still sure that’s the case but I don’t think it’s the whole story.”

  Her stomach knotted. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m starting to think that Zolanda and Leggett may have been involved in something more than garden-variety blackmail.”

  “What makes you suspect that?”

  But she knew the answer.

  “Your intruder last night,” he said.

  She almost stopped breathing. “How could there possibly be a connection?”

  Her voice sounded thin. She was going to have to get better at playing the role of innocent tearoom waitress or she would find herself back at Rushbrook.

  “I have no idea,” Jake said. “But there must be one. Otherwise we are looking at an amazing coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  That sounded stronger, she decided, as if she was interested but not panicky.

  “I’m told there’s very little in the way of serious crime in Burning Cove, so what are the odds that someone breaks into your cottage and then hangs around outside to watch your place on the very same night that Madam Zolanda gets murdered?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “What are the odds?”

  “I’m not sure, either, but whatever they are, I don’t like them. I have a hunch that one way or another, everything that happened last night and early this morning is connected.”

  She clenched her fingers around her handbag. “You sound very certain.”

  “I told you, I used to be in the import-export business.”

  “And you carried a gun because it was a dangerous business.”

  “Yes,” Jake said.

  He did not elaborate.

  Adelaide sat quietly in the seat, trying to find logic in the chaos of the ominous currents that were swirling around her. She couldn’t stop a force of nature like Jake Truett. The best she could hope to do was gain some control over his investigation. She reminded herself that recovering a diary filled with secrets was his primary objective.

  “Thelma Leggett is the key to this situation,” she said finally.

  “One of the keys, yes.”

  “The police are looking for her, but as you pointed out, if she left town, there’s not much they can do about finding her.”

  “No,” Jake agreed. “And if Dr. Skipton rules Zolanda’s death a suicide, Detective Brandon will have no reason to waste his time searching for a missing assistant.”

  Adelaide gathered her nerve. “Doesn’t mean we can’t look for her.”

  Jake looked intrigued. “Sounds like you’ve got a plan to do that.”

  “I told you, I’ve got a friend who just opened a detective agency here in town. Finding people is her specialty.”

  “The lady private investigator who checked into my background?”

  “Yes, Raina Kirk. Do you have a problem with the idea of hiring a female investigator?”

  “No,” Jake said. “It’s just that I’ve never met one before. Are there any other detective agencies in town?”

  “Not that I know of. Raina is our only option. She needs the business and I think we can trust her.”

  “You think we can trust her?”

  Adelaide gazed straight ahead through the windshield and contemplated the disaster that had enveloped her the last time she took the leap of faith that real trust always demanded. She had been very naïve. But this was different, she thought.

  “You can’t ever be absolutely positive that a person is trustworthy, can you?” she said. “People lie all the time. But, yes, I think that we can trust Raina. She is new in town and she is trying to establish a reputation here in Burning Cove.”

  “I see,” Jake said.

  She turned her head to look at him. He was watching her with a very intent expression. A shiver of dark awareness chilled the back of her neck.

  “You’re wondering if you can trust me, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He gave her a cold smile. “And you’re asking the same questions about me.”

  “We don’t know much about each other.”

  “No,” he agreed. “But as you pointed out, we’re stuck with each other. We are each other’s alibi for last night.”

  “Assuming we might actually need alibis,” she said.

  “When you’re dealing with murder, it’s always a good idea to have an alibi, especially if you’re the one who discovered the body. In my experience, cops are usually suspicious of the person who reports the death.”

  “You’re convinced Zolanda was murdered?”

  “Until proven otherwise, yes.” Jake glanced at the gold watch on his left wrist. “We can’t afford to lose any time. When can I meet Raina Kirk?”

  “I’m sure there won’t be any problem getting an appointment for today.”

  “Good.” Jake took his arm off the back of the seat and turned around to start the car. “How do you feel about taking in a boarder?”

  She went very still. “You?”

  He put the speedster in gear. “Look on the bright side—I may be out of work but I can afford the rent.”

  “You’re convinced that we’re involved in something that might be very dangerous, aren’t you?”

  “A blackmailer is dead and her assistant is probably in possession of a lot of secrets, including a certain diary,” Jake said. “Yes, I think we’re involved in something dangerous.”

  “As of this morning, my reputation is in tatters and, as it happens, I have an extra bedroom,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind taking in a boarder. To be honest, I could use the extra money to help make ends meet.”

  Chapter 20

  Raina drew on all of the cool composure she had cultivated in her career as a professional secretary at a prestigious New York law firm. She needed the business, but Luther Pell would be a dangerous client.

  “Exactly what is it you want me to do, Mr. Pell?” she asked.

  “Someone is stealing some of my most expensive liquor,” Luther said. “The losses are never serious enough to warrant calling in the police. A few bottles of good whiskey one week, some French champagne the next. At first my manager and I attributed the missing items to inventory errors.”

  “I see.” She opened her notebook and picked up a sharpened pencil. “I’m sure you go through a lot of liquor at your nightclub.”

  Luther raised his brows. “Do you disapprove of my business, Miss Kirk?”

  “I have no problems with it unless you are engaged in some illegal activities on the side. I’m new here in town. I can’t afford to take any case that might get me into trouble with the local police.”

  “No need to worry about that. If the cops give you any problems, I’ll have a word with the chief.” Luther smiled. “My relationship with the Burning Cove Police Department is excellent.”

  “Because you pay the cops very well to look the other way?”

  Luther assumed a pained expression. “This isn’t L.A., Miss Kirk, and I don’t own a powerful movie studio. I don’t buy and sell the local police. I’m just a businessman, one who, at the moment, happens to have a small but rather annoying inventory problem.”

  Luther Pell was certainly a businessman, but her intuition warned h
er that that was only one of many guises that he adopted to confront the world. There was a lot more going on beneath the surface of the man, and she was sure that some of it was profoundly complicated.

  He was in his late thirties, maybe three or four years older than her, but his eyes were those of a man who had seen too much darkness. Someone had mentioned that he had served in the Great War. She did not doubt it. Violence, she reflected, always left its mark.

  Tall and lean, he wore his fashionable drape-cut linen jacket and immaculately creased trousers with an air of casual sophistication. There was some interesting gray in his jet-black hair, which he wore parted on the side, lightly oiled and brushed straight back in the style made fashionable by stars such as Cary Grant.

  Her plan had been to start her agency by attracting a female clientele on the assumption that women would feel more comfortable confiding in another woman than in a male investigator. She had been floored when the owner of the Paradise Club walked through her door a short time ago. She didn’t count the phone calls to L.A. that she had made to confirm the identity of Jake Truett. Those calls were favors for a friend.

  “Forgive me, Miss Kirk, but I’m getting the impression that you are not interested in taking my case,” Luther said.

  “I need the business,” she said. “But I’ll admit you aren’t exactly the kind of client I was expecting to attract.”

  “Should I be insulted?” Luther asked a little too gently.

  Alarmed, she sat forward very quickly. The last thing she needed was to make an enemy of Luther Pell. He and his very good friend Oliver Ward, the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel, exerted a great deal of influence in town. Individually, either one of them could destroy her business before she even got it going.

  “I am well aware that you are a powerful figure in Burning Cove,” she said. “But rumor has it that you are connected to certain individuals who operate casinos in Nevada. In addition, I understand you have an interest in at least one of the gambling boats anchored off of Santa Monica.”

  Luther nodded solemnly, taking the implied criticism in stride. “I’m impressed. You’re well-informed for a newcomer.”