So he knew she lived in one of the cottages on the bluff above Crescent Beach. That should not have come as a surprise but for some reason it did. The realization that he had been paying some attention to her was oddly thrilling but it also made her deeply uneasy. Then again, maybe she was overreacting. In recent months she had learned that it was often difficult to determine the fine line between caution and paranoia.
Jake was watching her with a look of mild expectation. It dawned on her that she had not given him her first name. For some reason it seemed like a very big step.
“Adelaide,” she said. “My name is Adelaide Brockton.”
It was probably not a good idea to embark on a new relationship with a lie, but it wasn’t as if she had a lot of options. In any event, it was highly unlikely that this was the start of an acquaintanceship that would ever, even remotely, metamorphose into a real relationship.
“Adelaide,” he repeated. He seemed pleased with the sound. “Nice name. It suits you.”
She knew she ought to go back to the kitchen and prepare Jake’s tea, but she found herself hesitating. She wanted to linger at his table.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Burning Cove?” she asked.
“You want the truth? I cannot be absolutely certain but I believe that I am starting to go out of my mind.”
She stared at him. “Uh, that doesn’t sound good—”
“With boredom.”
She relaxed. “Perfectly understandable. You’re obviously a fit and healthy man who needs to remain active and engaged with the world. If you’re bored, it’s probably time for you to start planning for a new career, in spite of what the doctor told you.”
“Do you think so?”
“It’s entirely possible that your doctor was right when he said you required a temporary change of scene. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that an extended period of outright boredom and strict routine are good for you.”
“Do you give advice a lot?”
“Advice seems to go hand in hand with the tea business. People are always asking me about teas and herbs for various conditions. Weight control. Insomnia. Anxiety. Lack of—”
She managed to stop herself just in time.
“Lack of . . . ?” he prompted.
She took a deep breath. “Lack of interest in various . . . activities.”
“Activities.”
“Sometimes people find that they lack the energy or desire to engage in certain activities of an intimate nature. Activities that are quite . . . natural.”
“I see.” Jake nodded wisely. “Activities that at one time they found stimulating.”
She had the awful feeling that she was turning very red. The conversation was deteriorating rapidly. She cast about desperately for inspiration.
“Exactly,” she said, striving for a brisk, clinical air. “Activities such as taking long walks on the beach or swimming in the ocean.”
“I often walk on the beach and sometimes I swim.”
“Precisely.”
“Perhaps I should cease doing those things,” Jake said.
“Why would you want to stop? Those are very healthy and invigorating forms of exercise.”
“They are also stimulating,” Jake said. “My doctor said I should try to refrain from anything that stimulates my nerves.”
“My mother believed that certain types of stimulation are good for a person.”
“What therapy do you recommend?”
She went blank for a beat. Then a thought occurred.
“There is a very nice art museum in town,” she said. “The new exhibition featuring local artists got excellent reviews in the Herald.”
“Don’t you think that an art exhibition might be too stimulating for my delicate nerves?”
He was teasing her, she thought. Florence was wrong. Jake Truett was not interested in her, not in a romantic way. He was simply bored. He could find someone else to amuse and entertain him.
“Sorry,” she said coldly. “I thought you were serious. I’ll get your tea.”
She started to turn away.
“Wait,” Jake said quickly. “I thought you were joking.”
“When it comes to the subject of strong, healthy nerves, I never joke.”
“I understand. I apologize. About the art exhibition. Would you perhaps care to—”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Truett, you won’t get any more advice from me.” She gave him her sharpest, iciest smile. “I’ll get your tea. You’re right. You are very predictable. You are also bored. I’m sure that if you put your mind to it, you can find something stimulating to do in Burning Cove, but I can assure you that you won’t find it here at the Refresh Tearoom.”
His eyes tightened a little at the corners. He was no longer amused. She got the feeling that he was startled by her response. He hadn’t expected her to snap at him. It was dawning on him that he had miscalculated. Evidently he was not accustomed to making mistakes of that sort.
Chapter 3
“It’s been two months,” Conrad Massey raged on the other end of the phone. “How could you lose her for two damned months? You said you’d find her within hours. You said she couldn’t get more than a mile or two away from Rushbrook. But she vanished.”
Ethan Gill clenched his hand very tightly around the phone and reminded himself that above all he had to keep his composure; he had to sound soothing and reassuring. He was a doctor according to the fake diploma on the wall. He knew how to deal with an anxious patient. Above all, he must not give Massey any reason to think that the situation was spinning out of control.
“I do apologize for the delay,” he said, using the plummy tones he used with the wealthy people who brought their crazy relatives to the Rushbrook Sanitarium to have them committed. It was a voice that assured them that they were doing the right thing by their relations and that he would take the burden off their shoulders—for a price. “I’m afraid a small problem has arisen, but there is nothing to worry about. Matters will be sorted out very soon.”
“You told me that everything was under control.” Massey’s voice was sharp with frustration, anger, and something else, something akin to panic. “You said you had a lead on her whereabouts. You said it was only a matter of time before you had her safely back in her room there at Rushbrook. I can’t cover up her disappearance indefinitely. Sooner or later someone connected to the estate will start asking questions. What the hell is going on, Gill?”
“There have been . . . complications,” Gill said, striving to keep his voice calm. The truth was, Massey was not the only one who was on the verge of panic. “But nothing that can’t be dealt with soon. I assure you the situation is in hand.”
“Complications? What complications?”
“The patient has gone into hiding. She is a very ill woman, Mr. Massey, prone to extreme paranoia.”
“How can she hide?” Massey snapped. “She has no money. No family. No resources. If she goes to the police—”
“It’s difficult to say precisely how she is surviving financially but I’m positive she won’t go to the police. She knows that if the authorities discover that she is an escaped mental patient, she will be sent back here to Rushbrook immediately. Relax, Mr. Massey. I will contact you as soon as I have more information.”
“I can’t believe you let her disappear like this.”
Gill struggled to suppress his own anger and fear. He was not about to tell Massey that Patient B had been located two weeks ago. She was living under the name of Adelaide Brockton and working as a tearoom waitress in the exclusive seaside resort town of Burning Cove, California. Massey was a desperate man. He had to be handled with great care. If he found out where the research subject was currently residing, he would very likely try to take matters into his own hands. If that happened, he would put the entire plan in jeopardy.
 
; At the moment Massey was a necessary nuisance. Not only was he a source of badly needed cash, he had every reason to keep his mouth shut.
“I assure you, the matter will be resolved quite soon,” Gill said.
“Do you have any idea how much money I’ve got riding on this?”
Not nearly as much as I have. Gill wanted to shout the words down the phone line. But he could not let the panic and the rage take control.
“I told you, I’ll take care of the situation,” he said in the firm, authoritative voice he had cultivated to use with agitated patients.
It didn’t have any noticeable effect.
“We’ve got to get her back to Rushbrook immediately,” Massey said. “Sooner or later she’s going to try to get access to her inheritance. Who knows what the estate lawyers will do if she contacts them. If they discover the truth about the marriage—”
“I told you, the patient won’t dare contact the police or the estate. The situation is under control. It won’t be long before we find her. I must hang up now, Mr. Massey. I’ve got another appointment.”
“Let me know as soon as you have any news.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be the first person I call.”
Gill forced himself to replace the receiver very gently into the cradle. Silence fell on his elegantly appointed office. He sat behind the big wooden desk for a time, contemplating the disaster that had befallen him. He was fairly certain that Massey had believed him, but that did not solve all of the problems.
He glanced at his watch. It was time to call his associate in Burning Cove. He picked up the receiver. When the operator came on the line, he gave her the number.
Calvin Paxton answered on the first ring.
“This is Dr. Paxton.”
Gill grunted. Paxton’s voice was even richer and more resonant than his own. They had known each other since their days in medical school. Neither of them had started out with the upper-class voices. They were both the products of small towns in northern California, and they had arrived at medical school with the accents that reflected their origins.
Their similar upbringings and the fact that both of them were struggling in medical school had established a loose connection between them back at the start. But it was another shared quality that had forged a long-lasting business partnership—ambition.
They had dropped out of medical school because it had soon become obvious that there were easier ways to make a lot of money. The MD behind their names was useful, however—people trusted doctors—so they had paid a guy who printed counterfeit bills for the mob to create a couple of very authentic-looking diplomas. No one had ever questioned them.
For a time he and Paxton had gone separate ways. Gill had dabbled in the quack cure business before landing the position of director of the Rushbrook Sanitarium. Once in charge he had discovered there was a great deal of money to be made operating a high-class sanitarium for wealthy families who wanted to conceal their crazy relatives in a discreet asylum. “Out of sight, out of mind” was the unspoken motto of the Rushbrook Sanitarium.
The sanitarium had been in business since the turn of the century. When the last owner died, his family wanted no part of the operation. They had sold it to Gill for a song. His first step had been to double the fees charged to the families of the patients. When no one complained, he tripled the charges. It soon became apparent that wealthy people would pay any price to keep their crazy relatives locked up.
Paxton had used his Hollywood looks and style to take a different route to financial success. He had headed for Los Angeles, where he soon discovered that celebrities would pay any price to stay thin and beautiful. When the gossip magazines informed the general public that the secret to looking like a Hollywood star was Dr. Paxton’s Diet Tonic, business had boomed.
Paxton had been the smart one, Gill thought. He was not only making a lot of money, he lived in the glittering world of Hollywood. He rubbed shoulders with celebrities. He went to the best parties and spent his nights at the most exclusive nightclubs.
Rushbrook Sanitarium made money but it was situated outside the small, rural town of Rushbrook on the California coast. The remote location meant that very few people were aware of the asylum’s existence. That certainly pleased the families of the patients. But he was trapped in a hick town. If he didn’t find a way out, he was the one who would go crazy.
Three years ago he had been seriously thinking of selling the asylum and moving to San Francisco or L.A. And then Paxton had contacted him with a fascinating proposal. There was, according to Paxton, excellent money to be made marketing drugs to the Hollywood set. Gill had jumped at the opportunity.
The drug business had gone very well, indeed, but it had not freed him to leave Rushbrook. In order to prosper they had needed a laboratory, one that would not draw the attention of the FBI. The obvious place to install a fully equipped lab had been at Rushbrook. No one questioned a laboratory in a mental hospital. But it meant that, for most of the time, Gill was still trapped in his role as the director of the sanitarium, still imprisoned in the isolated, rural community.
Everything had changed the day he had learned about the drug called Daydream. He and Paxton understood immediately that the possibilities were breathtaking. Yes, there was a fortune to be made, but the drug held the promise of something even more alluring—power. Once Daydream was perfected, it could be used to control anyone, from mobsters to presidents.
Patient B’s escape had put the entire plan in jeopardy.
“We’re running out of time,” he said. “Massey is getting impatient. If we can’t recover the subject soon, the experiment will have to be terminated.”
“It’s not that easy,” Paxton said. “Patient B has had time to establish herself in the community. She’s got friends here. If she goes missing, there are people who will ask questions. That’s the last thing we want.”
“You said she is working as a waitress in a tearoom. Who would look for a missing waitress?”
“Her closest friend here in Burning Cove happens to be a lady private investigator.”
“What? How the hell did she get involved with a private detective?”
“I have no idea but that’s the situation.”
“Damn it,” Gill hissed. “You’ve got to deal with this mess. We can’t risk the subject going to the cops or the FBI with information about Daydream. They probably wouldn’t believe her but if the press gets hold of the story—”
“I’m well aware of that,” Paxton said.
“We need to get control of the situation now. Things are deteriorating, in case you haven’t noticed. First Ormsby accidentally ingests some of the drug and jumps out a window, and then the new research subject escapes. You said you would take care of everything.”
“I told you, things are more complicated than they first appeared,” Paxton said. “But I’ve got a new plan. I can’t carry it out alone, though. I need your help. You’ll have to come to Burning Cove.”
Gill glanced at the wall clock. “It’s a three-hour drive. I can be there early this evening. Make a reservation for me at a hotel.”
“I’d suggest the Burning Cove Hotel. That’s where I’m staying. But under the circumstances I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to be seen together. I’ll find a smaller, more secluded place for you to stay.”
“All right.”
Gill tossed the receiver back into the cradle. He would probably end up at a cheap auto court that wouldn’t have room service or decent plumbing.
Paxton, on the other hand, was staying at the Burning Cove, a legendary hotel that catered to the rich and famous. Not only that, he was fucking Vera Westlake, the actress the press had dubbed the most beautiful woman in Hollywood.
Somehow, Paxton always seemed to get the better end of every deal they had ever done together.
Gill glanced at his
watch. Time to go home and pack. But first he had to come up with a reasonable excuse to give to his staff to explain his absence.
Once again he found himself wondering whether Ormsby’s death truly had been the result of an accident. But what other explanation could there be? Paxton had no reason to kill the chemist who concocted the drugs.
Chapter 4
Calvin Paxton tossed the phone down onto the cradle. Gill was a problem. Eventually he would have to be removed, but Patient B was a higher priority at the moment.
He crossed the villa’s living room to where the French doors stood open. He looked out at the private patio where the most beautiful woman in Hollywood was reclining on a shaded lounger.
Vera Westlake was studying a script with an earnest air. A bottle of Dr. Paxton’s Diet Tonic stood on the table beside the lounger. A glass of ice sat next to it.
Vera was not staying at the Burning Cove Hotel. She had just dropped by to spend the afternoon with him. Her studio had rented a private villa in another part of town for her. Vera’s public image was that of an aloof, untouchable star who longed for privacy. Her publicist had determined that to maintain the impression, she should not stay at one of the most famous hotels in California.
Although celebrities claimed they came to the exclusive Burning Cove Hotel to escape the demands of Hollywood, the truth was they chose the hotel precisely because of its reputation as a celebrity enclave. Their publicists made certain that they were photographed arriving and departing through the ornate front gates. On the grounds they were always highly visible poolside or in the bar. The guest villas, like the one Paxton was staying in, provided temporary sanctuary because they included private, enclosed patios. Vera was protected while she was visiting him, but when she left she would walk through the elegant Spanish-colonial-revival-style lobby. She would draw the attention of anyone who was in the vicinity. Her driver would whisk her out through the grand front gates where the photographers and reporters lurked, cameras at the ready. Vera’s publicist would make certain of it. Nothing sold the gossip magazines like photos of the most beautiful woman in Hollywood trying to evade the press.