The Other Lady Vanishes

“Yes. Madam Zolanda is the reason I came to Burning Cove but she is not the reason I went to the theater with you.”

  “All right.”

  “That’s it? You’re accepting my explanation?”

  “You don’t owe me any explanations. Good night, Jake.”

  His eyes tightened at the corners. He looked as if he wanted to argue about something, but evidently he couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse.

  With obvious reluctance he released his grip on the doorjamb and stepped back.

  “Good night,” he said.

  He waited while she closed and locked the door. She twitched the curtains aside and watched him go down the steps to his car. He drove the short distance to his own cottage. When the lights of the speedster disappeared into the small garage, she turned off the living room lamp and made her way upstairs to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

  The drapes were open. She went to the window and stood looking out at Jake’s cottage for a time. When she saw the lights come on upstairs in his bedroom, she closed her own drapes, sat down on the little dressing table chair, and unfastened the straps of her sandals.

  Shoes in hand, she got up and opened the large wooden wardrobe. She started to put the sandals in their proper place on the shoe rack.

  For a few seconds she could only gaze, bewildered, at her brown and beige Oxfords, the shoes she wore for work. They were in the space reserved for the evening sandals.

  She spent a full minute trying to remember if, in her excitement about getting dressed for the date, she had forgotten exactly where she had positioned the Oxfords.

  She took a closer look at the bottom of the wardrobe. It wasn’t just that the Oxfords were in the wrong place. The wooden shoe rack had been moved.

  In her head she heard Dr. Gill speaking to her. Paranoia is a sign of mental instability, Adelaide. This drug will help you recover.

  In a desperate effort to put her mind at ease, she hoisted the shoe rack out of the wardrobe and set it on the floor. Carefully, as if she were opening a box that might contain spiders, she opened the lid of the built-in storage compartment in the base of the wardrobe.

  For a moment she stared at the neatly folded spare blankets. The faded patchwork quilt was on top. That was wrong. She was certain that she had left the plaid wool blanket on top.

  She was paranoid. So what? She had a right. A woman who had spent two months locked up in a psychiatric asylum had every reason to be paranoid.

  She crossed the room and went down on her knees beside the bed. The elderly lady who had rented the cottage to her had told her about the small compartment in the floor. She had explained that it was where she and her husband had hidden what little money and valuables they still possessed after the crash. One certainly couldn’t trust the banks.

  Adelaide pressed the concealed spring. The trapdoor popped open. She took out the wooden box she had hidden inside and placed it on the bed. She straightened and raised the lid of the box. The gold wedding band caught the lamplight. She ignored it and the handful of newspaper clippings about a mysterious, year-old explosion in a laboratory that had claimed two lives.

  She took out the little pistol and made sure it was loaded.

  Gun in hand, she left the bedroom, turning on every light along the way. She checked the bathroom and the spare bedroom and then she started downstairs.

  It took every ounce of nerve she possessed to conduct the search, but she forced herself to open every closet and every cupboard that was large enough to conceal a person.

  No killer garbed in a surgeon’s mask leaped out at her.

  By the time she reached the kitchen, every light in the house was blazing.

  The back door was locked.

  The window in the small laundry room was not.

  A wave of bone-chilling cold swept through her. She was very certain now that there had been an intruder inside the house. The question was, what had he hoped to find? A transient searching for food or valuables was the most likely explanation, but she could not bring herself to believe it.

  Paranoia is a sign of mental instability, Adelaide.

  She was concentrating so intently that she nearly screamed aloud when she heard the knock on the front door.

  Chapter 11

  “What the hell did you think you were doing with that last prediction?” Thelma tossed the black tuxedo jacket across the back of the nearest chair. “Are you crazy? Tomorrow morning this whole town is going to wake up and grab the morning paper to see who got murdered overnight.”

  “The stage act needed some fresh drama.” Zolanda yanked off the heavy turban, dropped it on the coffee table, and went to the liquor cabinet. “I decided to experiment. It worked. The audience loved it.”

  Thelma’s jaw tensed in a stubborn line. “What are you going to do when there’s no headline about a bloody death in the Burning Cove Herald tomorrow?”

  “Who knows? We may get lucky. In a town this size it’s entirely possible that someone will die overnight, either by accidental or natural causes.”

  “And if the paper doesn’t report any deaths?”

  “It won’t matter because it won’t be long before people will be talking about the mysterious disappearance of a certain tearoom waitress,” Zolanda said, trying for patience. “They won’t find a body, at least not right away, so everyone will assume that she was the one who suffered a bloody death. And when I discover the remains using my astonishing paranormal powers, I will be the most famous psychic in the nation.”

  Thelma stared at her. “Are you out of your mind? When the waitress goes missing and turns up dead, the cops will question you. They’ll want to know how you could predict such a thing.”

  Zolanda shrugged. “I’ve got the perfect explanation. I possess paranormal powers. Stop worrying, Thelma. The authorities won’t look twice at you.”

  “I can’t believe this. You’re putting everything we’ve worked for at risk.”

  “Stop fretting.” Zolanda yanked the stopper out of a decanter, splashed a large measure of whiskey into a glass, and took a fortifying swallow. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Thelma stalked back and forth across the living room. “What if Adelaide Brockton, or whatever she’s calling herself these days, doesn’t disappear?”

  “She will.”

  But it wouldn’t matter one way or another, Zolanda thought, not if she had been successful tonight. She suppressed a satisfied smile. She had been nothing short of brilliant. The audience was riveted. The note she received in her dressing room after the performance said it all. Congratulations. You’re going to be a star.

  She drank some more whiskey. She had given the performance of her life in that last act but she had lied to Thelma. The dramatic prediction she had used to close the show had nothing to do with the disappearance of the tearoom waitress. Adelaide Brockton was no longer important. She represented the past. Tonight the door to a glorious new future had been opened.

  That future did not include Thelma.

  “I hope you’re right,” Thelma said. “I still say you made a huge mistake, one that could backfire on both of us.”

  “Stop fretting. Why don’t you run along and have some fun at the Carousel. In the morning you’ll see that everything is going to be just fine.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Thelma shook her head. “I still say you should have talked to me before you pulled that stunt.”

  She grabbed the limo keys and headed for the door.

  Zolanda lit a cigarette and poured more whiskey into her glass. There were times when she envied Thelma. As far as the public was concerned, Thelma was just the psychic’s assistant and chauffeur. She got to relax when she wasn’t on the job. But for Madam Zolanda there was never a moment when she could be herself in public. The past three years had been exhausting.

  It was all worth it, though, because s
he had been a great success tonight. She had come a long way from the midwestern farm town where she grew up. Wealthy socialites and Hollywood stars begged her for advice and confided their deepest secrets. She had collected a fortune in blackmail material during the past three years. But that was not enough. She had always dreamed of being a star, and soon that dream would come true.

  The ornate gold and white enamel phone on the table rang. She picked it up, remembering to use her Zolanda voice. The caller asked one question. Zolanda responded.

  “Yes, I’m alone.”

  She hung up and poured herself another drink. She deserved to celebrate tonight.

  A short time later she heard a car coming up the long, secluded drive.

  She rushed to open the door. Her future was calling.

  Chapter 12

  Thoroughly rattled by the unexpected knock on her front door, Adelaide reacted instinctively and hit the light switch. The action plunged the kitchen into darkness. There was, she thought, no sense making a target out of herself.

  On the other hand she was probably overreacting. Why would an intruder who had already invaded her home return to knock politely on her door? She could not think of a reasonable answer to that question.

  “Adelaide, this is Jake Truett. Are you all right? If you don’t respond, I’m coming in.”

  Relief washed through her in a disorienting wave. She lowered the gun to her side and hurried to open the door. Jake glanced at her with hard, cold eyes and then looked past her, searching the shadows.

  “Jake,” she said. “You don’t know how happy I am to see—” She froze when she caught the glint of metal in his hand. She looked down and saw the gun he was holding alongside his thigh.

  Aside from the new accessory, he was still dressed as he had been for the theater, although he had discarded the fashionable drape-cut evening jacket and his tie. His crisp white dress shirt was open at the collar. His hair was tousled. It dawned on her that he had run the distance between his cottage and hers.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  She realized he was looking at the gun in her hand. She tightened her grip on it and took a step back, raising the weapon as she did so.

  “First, get rid of your gun,” she ordered.

  “All right,” he said. Crouching, he set the weapon down on the floor just over the threshold. He straightened slowly but made no move to force his way into the hall. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t in some sort of trouble.”

  “What made you think I was?”

  His brows rose. “How about the fact that I glanced out my window and noticed that you were going through this place, turning on every light in every room? I’m assuming something scared the living daylights out of you.”

  She exhaled slowly. “I think someone broke in here while you and I were out tonight.”

  “Anything stolen?”

  “Not as far as I can tell. I haven’t done a complete search but nothing important seems to be missing.”

  “What about food? Transients sometimes break in just to get a bite to eat.”

  “I thought about that, but I don’t believe that whoever broke in was after food. Nothing was disturbed in the kitchen.”

  He glanced meaningfully at the pistol. “Would you mind pointing that gun in another direction while we sort this out? You’re making me nervous. I’m not supposed to allow my nerves to get overstimulated, remember?”

  She lowered the pistol. “I apologize. I’m a little nervous myself at the moment.”

  “Call the police. I’ll wait here on the front porch. They’ll send an officer out to take a look.”

  She struggled with that for a few beats. The last thing she wanted to do was draw the attention of the local police. She was new in town, after all. Complaining about a break-in might cause the cops to ask questions about her past. She would have to lie, and that would lead to more lies, and then things could get complicated.

  “What would I tell them?” she said. “That I think there was an intruder? That nothing was stolen? That all I’ve got to show for proof is an unlocked window? They’ll tell me I most likely forgot to lock it.”

  “May I come in and take a look around?”

  She thought some more. Common sense finally descended. There was no way he could have been the intruder. He had been with her all evening.

  “First, tell me why you showed up on my doorstep with a gun,” she said.

  He gave her a faint, ice-cold smile. “I used to be in the import-export business, remember? I traveled to some dangerous places around the world and met with some dangerous people. Years ago I started carrying a gun for protection when I traveled. It became a habit.”

  “You consider Burning Cove a potentially dangerous town?”

  “I don’t think there is any such thing as a crime-free town.” He paused a beat and glanced at the pistol in her hand. “I would also point out that you seem to have the same opinion of Burning Cove.”

  “I’m a woman living alone. It seems sensible to take precautions.”

  “I won’t argue with that. So, what’s it going to be? Do you want me to take a look around or leave?”

  If he wanted to do her any harm, he’d had ample opportunity earlier in the evening when he had brought her home. She was overreacting.

  She stepped back, opening the door wider. “Pick up your gun and come on in. Yes, I would appreciate it if you would take a look at the laundry room window and see if you think it could have been opened from the outside.”

  “The intruder used a window in the laundry room?”

  “That was the only one that was unlocked.”

  Jake stooped, collected his gun, and moved across the threshold.

  Letting him into her home was the biggest risk she had taken since her escape from the Rushbrook Sanitarium, she thought. But it was a calculated risk.

  Chapter 13

  Zolanda stood at the edge of the roof and looked out over the moonlit ocean. She had never felt so thrillingly alive, so powerful. She was the queen of the night, and soon she would be a star on the silver screen. She spread her arms wide, savoring the euphoric sensations sweeping through her. She was on fire. She could fly.

  The wide sleeves of her caftan caught the cool breeze like great wings. Maybe her visitor was right, maybe she really could travel by astral projection. She was in a waking dream now. All she had to do was take one more step off the edge of the roof and she would be floating high above Burning Cove. The experience would be exactly as she had described it in her performance tonight. She would drift above the lights of the gorgeous Burning Cove Hotel and watch the glamorous people drinking their cocktails and making arrangements for illicit encounters. Soon she would be one of them, no longer the psychic to the stars; she would be a star.

  But even as the glorious possibilities dazzled her senses, a tiny flicker of doubt intruded. Like a drop of poison in a glass of water, the whisper of uncertainty tainted the vision. She didn’t have paranormal powers. There was no such thing as astral projection.

  What if she was hallucinating?

  She thought about the last glass of whiskey she had finished before climbing the stairs to the roof of the villa.

  A drop of poison.

  “The drug,” she gasped. “You gave me some of the drug, didn’t you?”

  The killer watched her from the shadows, saying nothing.

  The horror of what was happening was swept away by a searing rage.

  “You lied to me,” Zolanda hissed. “You poisoned me with Daydream. I’ll kill you.”

  She tried to lunge toward the killer but the monsters of the night were moving toward her now. Their eyes glittered with a hellish fire.

  Some small part of her mind struggled with reality. She was not seeing monsters with eyes of fire—the killer h
ad just lit a cigarette.

  But the hallucinations were in control. The dazzling rivers of the night swirled around her in fiery, disorienting waves. She staggered wildly on the parapet.

  The monsters advanced, relentless and implacable. The killer told her exactly why she was going to jump off the roof of the villa and quoted the old adage about revenge—a dish that was best served cold.

  “No,” she said, desperate to save herself. “You don’t understand. It was all a mistake. I can explain.”

  But the killer did not believe her.

  Zolanda lost her balance and fell, shrieking, into the night.

  The screaming stopped when she landed on the unforgiving concrete patio.

  The killer went downstairs, crowbar in hand, walked through the glass-walled conservatory, and stepped outside onto the patio. The psychic to the stars was very dead. There was no need to use the length of heavy metal to finish the job.

  The killer went back into the house and began to search for the psychic’s stash of blackmail secrets. The drug had hypnotic as well as hallucinogenic properties. In her delirium, Zolanda had talked freely, describing exactly where she had hidden the papers.

  Panic set in a short time later. There was no sign of the extortion material. Zolanda had probably not lied—the drug was very powerful—but she had somehow succeeded in taking her secrets to the grave.

  Chapter 14

  “You’re not going to be able to sleep tonight, are you?” Jake asked.

  Adelaide looked at him with haunted eyes.

  “Probably not,” she said. “But that’s my problem. Don’t worry about me. I appreciate your taking a look around but, as I told you, nothing is missing and every window is locked now.”

  They were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Adelaide had surprised him by brewing coffee instead of one of her unique tea blends. Some situations require coffee, she had explained. He had agreed.

  At least she was no longer pointing her little pistol at him. But the gun was currently lying on top of the big, scarred kitchen table, within reach. That made him uneasy because it was obvious that she had not had a lot of experience with it. She seemed to know the basics but she was not comfortable with the weapon. Guns in the hands of professionals were dangerous enough. In the hands of amateurs they were an even greater cause for concern because of the possibility that the trigger would get pulled by accident or impulse.