“What about your job?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be writing the advice column. How can you take off for Burning Cove?”
“It’s very thoughtful of you to be concerned about my work, but there’s no need to worry. The next two weeks’ worth of Dear Aunt Cornelia advice is on the way to the editor as we speak. I’m a very efficient person. We’ll need a good story to explain why you’re with me at the conference. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”
“I have to tell you, the very thought of you cooking up a cover story strikes fear in my heart.”
Maggie either didn’t hear him or wasn’t paying attention.
“The more I think about it, the more it makes sense to take only one car,” she said. “Miss Dewhurst insisted I use her lovely new Packard while she’s away. I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow. What’s your address?”
He wondered if he should panic.
“Eleven Beachfront Drive,” he heard himself say.
“Got it. Do you have an evening jacket? You’ll need one.”
“An evening jacket?”
“It’s Burning Cove. Of course you’ll need an evening jacket. Don’t worry if you don’t have one. I’m sure you’ll be able to rent something suitable when we get there. See you tomorrow at nine. Burning Cove is about a hundred miles north of L.A. We will be there in time for lunch.”
There was a click. The phone went dead. He took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment. No question about it. He had lost control of the conversation, the case, and the client.
Definitely time to panic.
Chapter 8
The Packard’s white leather seats were buttery soft. The polished wood inlay on the instrument panel gleamed. There was far more power under the mile-long hood than could be justified by any reasonable driver who was not on a racetrack.
Maggie Lodge drove like Wilbur Shaw roaring around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. All she lacked was a pair of racing goggles.
The top was down, so Sam had to raise his voice to be heard above the whipping wind and the howl of the engine.
“Are you sure your employer won’t mind you driving her car all the way to Burning Cove?” he asked.
“I told you, she insisted I use the Packard as much as possible,” Maggie called back. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“It’s a lot of car,” Sam said.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
The car was beautiful, and under other circumstances—if he had been at the wheel, for example—he would have been enjoying himself. The day was perfect for a drive up the coast—crystal clear blue skies and a diamond-bright ocean. But the lady at the wheel was transforming what should have been a pleasant road trip into a roller-coaster ride.
Maggie’s shoulder-length hair was once again secured with a scarf that had been folded into a triangle and knotted under her chin. She wore a white silk shirt and a pair of high-waisted dark green trousers. Sunglasses and leather driving gloves added a dashing touch. She was the kind of woman a man’s mother was supposed to warn him about: smart, independent, bold, reckless, unpredictable—downright scary.
He gripped the armrest and braced himself as Maggie accelerated out of another tight curve. He needed a distraction.
“About our cover story—” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m going to tell people I’m doing research for a book on lucid dreaming and that you’re my assistant. It will give both of us reasons to ask questions and interview people.”
“You have an excellent imagination,” he said.
“I know.”
“Want some advice from a professional investigator?”
“Of course,” she said. “I hired you for your expertise.”
“If someone inquires, go ahead and tell them you’re writing a book. That won’t make people suspicious. Everyone thinks they can write a book. But let me ask the questions that relate to the investigation.”
“Probably better to play it by ear, don’t you think?”
“No,” Sam said. “What do you know about the Guilfoyle Institute?”
“I told you, Arthur Guilfoyle is making a name for himself in the field of lucid dreaming. He says he can teach people to use his Method to open a pathway to their psychic senses.”
“Is that so?”
“I hear skepticism.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Guilfoyle is not alone in his belief,” Maggie said, launching the Packard out of another curve. “His theories are strikingly similar to those of Edgar Cayce, for instance.”
“That does not reassure me.”
“You’ve made it clear you are not a believer when it comes to the paranormal.”
Some of the enthusiasm seeped out of her voice. It was replaced with the cool wariness he had detected two days before when she had walked into his office. He was surprised to realize he missed the warmth.
“In my experience, anyone claiming to have paranormal powers is a fraud or a quack or delusional,” he said.
“What about intuition?” she asked.
He glanced at her, annoyed. “That’s different.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. Every cop I know believes in intuition. Forget it. What else can you tell me about Guilfoyle?”
“Guilfoyle claims he can teach almost anyone how to become a lucid dreamer,” Maggie said. “For those of us who do it naturally, he claims his Method will help us achieve greater control over our dreams.”
“You do this lucid dreaming frequently?”
“Ever since my teens,” she said. “I’ve got fairly good control, but it’s far from perfect. Things sometimes go off script.”
“Meaning you lose control of the dream?”
Her mouth tightened a little. “Yes.”
“When that happens, I assume the dream becomes a regular dream?”
“Not exactly. Well, who knows what a regular dream looks like for someone like me?”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind, it’s not important,” she said.
“Is there a practical application for the Guilfoyle Method, assuming it works?” he asked.
“Certainly.” Enthusiasm sparked again in Maggie’s voice. “A person who is plagued by nightmares, for example, might be able to use the technique to rewrite the scripts of the bad dreams.”
He heard the ghostly whisper of his intuition and knew that for Maggie, the possibility of rewriting a nightmare was more than a matter of curiosity or academic interest. It was personal.
“I can see the appeal,” he said, trying not to sound like a skeptic. “Who wouldn’t want to be able to rewrite a bad dream?”
“Exactly.” She braked for a curve. “I do find that my lucid dreams are often quite helpful when it comes to generating plot ideas.”
He went cold. “Plot ideas? You’re a writer?”
“I’m working on a novel of suspense, but so far I’ve only been able to sell short stories to the confession magazines. Not much money in that kind of publishing, and to be honest, I’m not very good at it. That’s why I’m assisting Lillian Dewhurst. I need the extra cash.”
He closed his eyes for the next curve. “Why aren’t you any good at writing confessions?”
“The stories all have the same theme—sin, suffer, repent.” Maggie downshifted. “It’s the female protagonist who gets to do the sinning, of course, and it almost always involves sex. Illicit affairs, that sort of thing. I’m good with that part. It’s fun to write. But it’s incredibly boring to do the suffer-and-repent bits.”
He gripped the edge of the window frame in preparation for another curve. “Let me guess—you’re not writing from personal experience.”
“Of course not. No one could rack up that many interesting experiences no matter how hard she tried. What success I’ve had in the magazine market is a tribute to my creativity, if you ask me. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to come up with a lot of fake confessions.”
“I am, of course, shocked to hear that those magazines are printing fiction.”
She laughed. “The same way the detective and police magazines print fake crime stories.”
Sam gazed straight ahead at the two-lane highway and considered the fact that he had a writer for a client, one who wrote fake true confessions. Could this case get any screwier?
It was time to change the subject.