“Where are we staying in Burning Cove?” he asked.
“Sadly, not the Burning Cove Hotel.” She stomped on the gas as they came out of a curve. “Two reasons. First, I doubt if I could have gotten reservations on such short notice. Second, the Institute recommends that conference attendees stay at a nearby hotel, the Sea Dream, which is affiliated with the Institute and is within walking distance of the grounds. I was able to get us connecting rooms. That way we’ll be able to discuss our findings in private.”
Our findings. The words chilled his gut. Or maybe he was getting carsick.
“There are two formal receptions,” Maggie continued. “I believe I mentioned the champagne event scheduled for tonight. The other event is a farewell cocktail party on the third night of the conference. Did you bring an evening jacket, or should we go shopping in Burning Cove?”
He held his breath as Maggie braked for another curve. Distraction was no longer working.
“You’d better pull over,” he said.
“Why?”
“Two reasons. The first is that it’s my turn to drive.”
“I don’t mind driving. I enjoy it.”
“The second reason is that if you don’t pull over and change places with me, I am going to be ill all over these nice leather seats.”
“A delicate stomach?”
“Oh, yeah. Very delicate.”
She slowed the Packard and pulled into a turnout. He opened his door with a sense of relief and extricated himself from the depths of the seat. Maggie got out on her side of the car. Without a word they changed positions.
He put the convertible in gear, pulled out onto the highway, and drove toward Burning Cove at a sedate pace.
“I guess you aren’t accustomed to fast cars,” Maggie ventured after a moment.
“Guess not.”
“I’m sure you’ll get used to this one soon,” Maggie said encouragingly. “It’s exciting to drive.”
“Uh-huh.”
“About your evening jacket,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’ve arrested a few mobsters in my time. I know how to dress for a town like Burning Cove.”
Chapter 9
Looks like they intend to sell the hell out of the Guilfoyle Method,” Sam said. “This place must have cost a fortune, not to mention the money it took to remodel it so it could be used for commercial purposes.”
“I must admit I’m a little surprised, myself,” Maggie said. “Guilfoyle is a rising star in the dream analysis world, but I didn’t realize he was this successful.”
They were standing in an alcove on one side of the vast room, champagne glasses in hand. Together they watched Arthur Guilfoyle and his wife, Dolores, welcome guests to the champagne reception. There were at least a hundred people so far, and more were arriving by the minute. The women floated around the room in beaded gowns and sparkling jewelry. As Maggie had predicted, the men wore evening jackets.
Sam figured that between his career as a homicide detective in L.A. and his short-lived marriage to the daughter of a wealthy tycoon, he had seen the interiors of enough mansions to be able to judge the old Carson Flint estate. No question about it, the sprawling complex of Spanish Colonial–style buildings that was now the Guilfoyle Institute was impressive even by Southern California standards.
The estate had been constructed on a large chunk of property situated above the rugged cliffs just outside Burning Cove. Some of the smaller structures that had probably once housed caretakers and household staff were still awaiting renovations. It was clear the new owners had poured cash into the main building, a couple of guest villas, and the vast gardens.
The proportions inside the lobby of the Institute were on a grand scale. Every doorway and window was oversized, arched, and framed in dark wood. Massive wrought iron chandeliers hung from heavy wooden beams. The floor was covered in warm terra-cotta tiles. The area rugs were done in deep, rich Mediterranean colors. Sam knew he was no expert on art, but the paintings hanging on the plastered walls looked expensive.
Maggie had brightened immediately when he’d joined her in the hall outside their hotel rooms wearing the white jacket and the bow tie and the rest of the evening outfit. She had looked so relieved he had immediately decided not to mention that every item, including the gold cuff links, was a leftover from his doomed marriage. Like the coatrack.
Elizabeth had done her best to try to make him blend in with L.A. society. She had failed. It wasn’t her fault. He had known from the start he would never be more than an observer in her world, and a disinterested one at that. The more he had observed, the less he had wanted to become a part of the upper-class social set in which Elizabeth moved.
It struck him that being here with Maggie was different. He was comfortable standing in the alcove with her for a couple of reasons. The first was that she wasn’t asking him to become something he wasn’t. She had been concerned about the evening jacket only because she thought it constituted the camouflage he needed to go undercover for the investigation.
So yes, she was enthusiastic when it came to telling him how to do his job, but he had no problem with that. He already knew how to do his job. He found it entertaining to have her instruct him in the art of investigation. Okay, it was also irritating. Why did it amuse him? One of the mysteries of the universe, probably. Make that one of the mysteries of Maggie Lodge.
As for the second reason why he was happy to stand here with her—well, he wasn’t sure what it was yet, but there was another reason, of that he was positive.
Her own camouflage this evening was entirely satisfactory, as far as he was concerned. She wore an emerald-green number with short, fluttery sleeves. The dress was demure in front and cut low in back, and it clung to her feline curves. The silky fabric flowed over her hips and stopped just short of her very nice ankles and green evening sandals.
Her hair was parted in the center and clipped back behind her ears with a couple of combs. It fell in soft waves to her shoulders. Her jewelry was limited to a pair of simple gold earrings and a tiny evening bag studded with gold sequins. Classy. He would have been content to stand in the alcove with her all evening, sipping champagne and studying the crowd.
Studying the crowd.
That was it—the second reason why he liked being here with Maggie. She was an outsider—an observer—like him. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he trusted his intuition. Maybe, deep down, they actually had a few things in common. But probably not.
“Guilfoyle may be a fake psychic selling dreams, but judging by the size of this crowd, it’s obvious he’s got a real talent for promotion,” he said.
Maggie sipped a little champagne, but she did not take her attention off the people milling around the grand room. He knew she was searching the faces of those around them, trying to spot the woman who was posing as her employer.
“I told you, Guilfoyle has some interesting theories and techniques,” she said. “That’s why I originally planned to attend this conference.”
Sam watched Arthur and Dolores Guilfoyle play the role of gracious hosts at the entrance of the lobby. They made a handsome, glamorous couple. Dolores was a striking, sophisticated blonde. She wore a pale pink gown that glittered with what must have been a million pale pink sequins. Long pink gloves, a dainty pink bag, and a lot of jewelry completed the outfit.