In due course the shipping business and the new mansion had passed into the hands of Conrad’s father, Emmett. That transition had proven disastrous. The empire that had managed to survive the devastating impact of the earthquake and the fire, the empire that should have prospered during the Great War, could not survive inept management at the top.
Conrad had known, even as a child, that his father was weak. Emmett Massey had cared more about the details of his busy social life—his clubs and his mistresses—than he had about the business. Not wanting to be bothered with the day-to-day decision making and the long-range planning required to keep the firm going strong, he had dumped the responsibilities onto the shoulders of his managers, bankers, and lawyers. The finely tuned machine that was Massey Shipping had faltered. The crash had finished the job. The company plummeted into bankruptcy. Six months later, Emmett suffered a stroke and died.
Conrad was eighteen when he inherited the ruins of what had once been a powerful financial empire. He had been determined to rebuild, but the dark clouds of the depression that had settled on the country had blocked him at every turn.
No bank would touch him because of the bankruptcy, so in the end he had made the mistake of borrowing money at outrageous interest rates from a very dangerous tycoon. He had used the cash to relaunch Massey Shipping. There was hope on the horizon, especially given the fact that the world was surely falling into yet another worldwide conflict.
There were fortunes to be made when great nations went to war. The government would need ships and the crews that knew how to man them. It would require the expertise of captains who had sailed the treacherous seas of the Pacific Ocean and were well acquainted with far-flung ports of call. Massey Shipping would be ideally positioned to reap enormous profits when war was declared. The company would do its duty for the nation—for a price.
The future had at last begun to come into focus, Conrad thought. But now the man who had loaned him the money was demanding that the entire amount plus interest be paid by the end of the year. They both knew that was impossible.
Conrad had finally understood that his generous benefactor had intended that outcome from the beginning. The bastard planned to take over Massey Shipping and rake in the enormous profits generated by the war effort.
Conrad had been so desperate that he had contemplated murder. The only thing that had stopped him from making the attempt was knowing that the tycoon’s equally ruthless sons would step into their father’s shoes.
It had all seemed hopeless. The only thing that had kept him going was the fire of rage and ambition that burned within him. He was willing to sacrifice anything and anyone. Dr. Ethan Gill had offered up Miss Adelaide Blake, a sheltered, naïve librarian who had found herself alone in the world and in possession of a valuable inheritance. Gill had assured him that Adelaide was mentally unbalanced and that she was better off in the asylum.
The sacrifice had been performed, Conrad thought, but things had gone wrong. In the end it was necessary to tell some lies and forge some papers, but Adelaide had finally vanished into the Rushbrook Sanitarium. He did not know exactly why Gill had been so anxious to get hold of Adelaide, and Conrad had not asked. The truth was that he did not want to know.
But Adelaide had stunned them all by escaping the locked ward at Rushbrook. And now Gill was lying about her whereabouts.
Conrad reflected on the conversation he’d had on the phone a short time ago. The caller had been a woman who had refused to identify herself.
“I know where Adelaide Blake is. For a price, I’ll give you the information. But you’d better move fast because Gill already knows where she’s hiding out. The only reason he and his pal haven’t grabbed her already is because they haven’t figured out how to do it without drawing the attention of the local police. Miss Brockton—that’s the name she’s using these days—has friends now, you see. If she goes missing, people will start looking for her.”
“I can handle Adelaide Blake or Brockton or whatever she’s calling herself,” he’d said. “Just tell me how much you want for the information and where you want me to leave the money.”
The anonymous caller had named the price and given him the location where the transaction would take place. She had warned him not to be late. He had agreed instantly although it involved a long drive to the rendezvous point, a gas station outside a small rural town on Highway 101. He glanced at his watch. It was a little after eight in the morning. He would pack a bag and leave immediately.
Gill and whoever he was working with might not be smart enough to figure out how to get control of Adelaide without drawing the attention of the cops, but that would not be a problem for him, Conrad thought. He had been able to make her fall in love with him once. He could do it again.
Chapter 24
The following morning the Refresh Tearoom was packed.
“Business is certainly booming today,” Florence declared. She set the teapot down on the counter and surveyed the packed tearoom through the kitchen doorway. “Maybe you should find dead bodies more often.”
“Don’t say that.” Adelaide carefully measured tea into a pot. “I’m still trying to get the scene out of my head. It was awful, Flo. She was just lying there, all crumpled up on the patio.”
The Refresh Tearoom had been busy from the moment it opened. The questions had been incessant but Adelaide came up with a standard reply: Sorry. Can’t talk about it. Police are still investigating. When the investigation was concluded, she planned to rewrite the script: Sorry. Can’t talk about it. Too upsetting. I’m sure you understand.
“I think you should know that it’s all over town that Jake Truett spent the night at your place,” Florence warned in low tones. “And that he was with you when you found the dead psychic.”
“I told you, Mr. Truett is my new boarder. I need the money.”
“I heard you the first time,” Florence said. “But that’s not going to stop the gossip. You might need the cash but Truett doesn’t need the cheap rent. He could afford to stay at the Burning Cove Hotel.”
“He prefers the privacy of a cottage on the beach.”
“Not much privacy at your place, is there? You’re sharing the same bathroom now.”
Last night the shared bathroom had not been a problem, Adelaide reflected. She had been too exhausted to care that there was a man in her cottage. The sleepless night before the discovery of Zolanda’s body followed by the long day spent talking to the police and hiring Raina had ensured her first solid night’s sleep in months.
Jake had been a perfect gentleman. Knowing that he was sleeping just down the hall had given her the first real peace of mind she had experienced since the awful night when she was locked up at Rushbrook.
She had to admit she had been severely jolted that morning, however, when, still groggy from sleep, she opened the bathroom door and found Jake, nude to the waist, shaving in front of a steamy mirror. They both apologized and she backed out of the small space immediately. But once she recovered from the shock, she had concluded that she could quickly become accustomed to the sight of Jake without a shirt. He had a very nicely muscled back and excellent shoulders.
“There’s plenty of room at my cottage,” she said to Florence.
“Honey, you don’t have to pretend, not with me. I’m your friend, remember? I’m glad that you and Truett are having a little summer fling. I just want to be sure you understand that when he goes back to L.A., that’ll be the end of it. Do yourself a favor. Don’t start dreaming of wedding gowns and gold rings.”
Adelaide thought about the gold ring in the safe under her bed. A shiver of icy horror swept through her. “Trust me when I tell you that I am definitely not making wedding plans.”
Florence eyed her closely for a few seconds and then nodded once, evidently satisfied with what she saw. “I can’t help but notice that your new boarder has very conveniently manage
d to escape all the curiosity seekers. He hasn’t been in for his usual cup of green tea this morning.”
“Jake went into town to pick up a few things at the hardware store,” Adelaide said. “He wants to do some minor repairs on my cottage.”
There was no need to add that he had left with a shopping list that included new locks and the tools required to install them.
“Does he, now? Well, well, well. Wouldn’t have thought a rich businessman from L.A. would make a good handyman.”
“I think he’s trying to make himself useful,” Adelaide said.
That was no less than the truth, she decided.
Florence peered at her. “Speaking of Mr. Truett and his exhausted nerves, how did he handle the scene at Madam Zolanda’s villa yesterday morning? Must have been a real shock for him. I gather he didn’t faint or have hysterics.”
Adelaide thought about how quickly Jake had approached the body, checked for a pulse, and then searched the villa.
“Nope,” she said.
Florence chuckled. “Had a hunch that might be the case. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his nerves.”
“I agree,” Adelaide said. “But he needs a job, Flo.”
Florence got a speculative expression. “Heard he used to be in the import-export business. That covers a lot of territory, if you take my meaning.”
Adelaide remembered Raina’s comments on the subject of Jake’s former line of business.
“Are you implying that Mr. Truett is a shady character?” she asked.
“Well, I’m told that he and Luther Pell are friends of long standing.”
Startled, Adelaide set the kettle down on the stove with more force than she had intended. She spun around to look at Florence.
“Who told you that?” she demanded.
“A friend of mine whose son works as a valet at the Paradise Club said that Pell has invited Truett for drinks in Pell’s private quarters above the club a few times since Truett arrived in town,” Florence said. “Heard they’ve played a couple of rounds of golf together, too.”
Adelaide wasn’t sure why she was taken aback by that information, but for some reason it left her strangely disconcerted.
“I had no idea,” she said. “Jake . . . Mr. Truett . . . never mentioned that he knew Luther Pell.”
“Nothing to worry about, I’m sure,” Florence said quickly. “It’s just that everyone says Pell has connections in the gambling world, and that world is one hundred percent in the shade. And then there’s the fact that Pell owns a nightclub here in town. A lot of folks would say that is another shady line of work.”
“Yes, I know.”
Adelaide told herself she had no right to be blindsided. Jake had a right to his secrets. Nevertheless, a long-standing friendship with Luther Pell probably ought to be cause for concern. Florence was right. Gambling and nightclubs were shady businesses.
Not necessarily illegal, she reminded herself, just . . . shady.
The bell chimed over the front door of the tearoom, distracting her. She glanced through the kitchen doorway in time to see Vera Westlake make an entrance.
An expectant hush fell over the tearoom. Unlike most celebrities who showed up at Refresh, Vera Westlake always arrived unaccompanied and she always sat alone at her favorite table. There was no assistant, no publicist, no gossip columnist, no male companion with her. Adelaide smiled to herself. Evidently, Westlake did not need an entourage to remind those in the vicinity that she was a star. She had the power to command every eye in the room. But, then, she had it all—elegance, glamour, talent, beauty, and that magical quality called presence. When she was in the room, it was hard to look away from her.
She had a few trademarks. One was her maroon lipstick. She also had a habit of appearing in public dressed in a single color from head to toe. Today was no exception. Every item of clothing that she wore—the flowing, high-waisted silk trousers, the silk blouse with its billowing sleeves, the chunky-heeled sandals, and the little confection of a felt hat—was in a rich shade of cream. Her dark hair was parted on the side and fell in waves to her shoulders. Her eyes were enhanced with mascara and eyeliner. Her brows were thin and gracefully arched.
She seemed utterly oblivious to the fact that everyone in the tearoom was staring at her.
“Movie stars,” Adelaide whispered. “Not a subtle bunch, are they?”
“No, but they can sure sell tea,” Florence said.
“True. There’s an additional benefit to having Miss Westlake drop in for tea this morning. Her presence will change the topic of conversation out there.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Florence wiped her hands on a towel. “I’ll get her seated while you fix her tea. Expect she’ll be wanting her usual.”
Florence bustled out of the kitchen. Adelaide got busy preparing a fresh pot of Tranquility tea.
Florence hurried back into the kitchen. “She wants to talk to you.”
Adelaide groaned. “You mean she wants to interrogate me about what happened yesterday morning?”
“Probably. Apparently everyone, including some movie stars, is interested in the psychic who predicted her own death.”`
“I’m going to stick with my story. As long as the cops are investigating, I can’t say much.”
“Good luck.”
Adelaide set the teapot and a dainty cup and saucer on a tray. “I’ll be polite. I just won’t give her any information.”
“You could try changing the subject by asking her about the wonders of that diet drink she’s always so eager to talk about.”
Adelaide shook her head. “I can’t understand how she could allow herself to believe that diet tonic actually works. Paxton is nothing but a snake oil salesman.”
Florence chuckled. “If the rumors are true, she’s having an affair with Dr. Paxton. Maybe she’s in love with the man and just wants to do him a favor by helping him market his tonic.”
“Maybe. But I’m telling you, the reason Paxton’s tonic has been so successful is that fancy bottle. Packaging is the key. I need to work on our tea labels. Also, we need a catchy slogan.”
“No need to fuss with the labels and such, not when we’ve got stars like Vera Westlake dropping in for a pot of one of your special tea blends.”
Adelaide smiled. “You’re right. Miss Westlake may be promoting Paxton’s tonic, but she’s also selling a lot of tea for us, isn’t she?”
“Yes, indeed,” Florence said.
Adelaide carried the tray with the pot of Tranquility tea out into the tearoom and set it down on Vera’s table. She had to resist the urge to curtsy.
“Good morning, Miss Westlake,” she said. “Thank you so much for stopping by Refresh today. I’ve got your special blend brewing in the pot. It will be ready in a few minutes. Would you care for some tea cakes or cookies?”
“You mustn’t tempt me,” Vera said with a languid smile. “When I crave sweets, I reach for a bottle Dr. Paxton’s Diet Tonic. It works wonders. I wouldn’t want to spoil the effects by snacking on cakes and cookies.”
Vera had the smoky voice of a nightclub singer. She managed to make the sales pitch for Paxton’s tonic sound like an invitation to an exclusive private party. Adelaide knew that everyone in the tearoom had just heard her praise.
“Will there be anything else?” Adelaide asked.
“I understand that you’re the one who found Madam Zolanda yesterday morning.” Vera visibly shuddered. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”
“Yes, it was,” Adelaide said. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it. The police are still investigating.”
“According to the local paper, you were not alone.”
“No, I wasn’t alone.”
Vera sighed. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Madam Zolanda was a fraud.”
Adel
aide cleared her throat. “A lot of people are convinced that she had genuine psychic powers.”
“Nonsense. There is no such thing as paranormal abilities.”
“You were not one of her clients, then?”
“Of course not.” Vera looked out the window, a faraway expression on her lovely face. “Still, it’s all very sad, isn’t it? She must have been planning to take her own life when she made that final prediction. She would have loved seeing herself in the headlines.”
“You were at the Palace when Zolanda gave her final performance?”
“Yes. Dr. Paxton wanted to attend. He thought it would be amusing. He asked me to go with him, so I did.”
“I’m surprised, given your opinion of Zolanda’s talents.”
Vera turned away from the view out the window and smiled a surprisingly wistful smile. “Don’t misunderstand me. While I’m certain Zolanda had no real paranormal talents, I did find her act entertaining. You saw the audience. Everyone enjoyed the performance.”
“Yes.”
“I was not one of her clients but I was acquainted with her. She and I were both aspiring actresses at one time.”
“I see,” Adelaide said.
“We showed up at the same casting calls. Occasionally we had drinks together. But when I got the lead in Dark Road, everything changed. It’s very difficult to maintain a friendship between two people who are competing for the same roles.”
“I understand.”
“Believe it or not, I was very happy for Zolanda when she came up with the psychic routine. It seemed to be working brilliantly. She must have been making a lot of money. She had all the publicity she could possibly want. Half the stars in Hollywood were clamoring for private consultations. I can’t believe she took her own life. Suicide makes no sense.”
“Perhaps the police will be able to find some answers,” Adelaide said.