Maggie took charge. “I’m writing a book about quacks and charlatans in the dream analysis business. Mr. Sage is an expert on exposing frauds.”
Oxlade’s brows bunched together in deep concern. “You are hardly qualified to write that sort of book, Miss Smith. Or Lodge.”
“I disagree,” Maggie said. “I have had a great deal of experience identifying quacks. They are amazingly common.”
Rage flashed in Oxlade’s eyes. “Sadly, it appears your failure to accept professional guidance has led you down a dangerous path, Miss Lodge. I advise you to be very careful. There is considerable risk involved in slandering respected members of the medical profession. Annoy the wrong people and you will find yourself swamped with lawsuits.”
“Are you threatening Miss Lodge?” Sam asked, keeping his tone politely inquiring. “It sounds like you’re threatening her, but I like to be sure before I jump to conclusions.”
“I am giving Miss Lodge some professional advice,” Oxlade snapped. “I’ll give the same advice to you. Research assistants can be sued, too.”
He turned and stalked off into the crowd.
Sam watched him for a moment. “Care to tell me what that was all about?”
“That was about me letting my emotions get the best of my common sense.”
“Thought so. Generally speaking, professionals in the detective business do not recommend a loss of temper when you’re trying to stay undercover. It attracts attention.”
“I’m aware it was a mistake,” Maggie said, her voice tight. “Unfortunately, I lack experience in this sort of thing.”
“What’s done is done, so forget it, but you had better fill me in. What happened between the two of you?”
“About five months ago I made a couple of consultation appointments with Oxlade to discuss my dreams.”
“Why?”
“It requires a lot of skill to achieve control over a dream script. Gaining and keeping the techniques is an ongoing process, at least for me. I’m good, but far from perfect.”
“You do realize how odd that sounds to someone like me,” he said.
“You are not the only one who finds the subject of lucid dreams odd. That’s why I generally refrain from discussing the subject with people who are not interested in metaphysics.”
“Tell me more about Oxlade.”
“The first session went well. He understood what I was talking about. To give the devil his due, he really has studied lucid dreaming. I didn’t like the man or his office, but I thought I could work with him.”
Sam decided to ignore the comment about Oxlade’s office. Probably another furniture problem.
“What happened?” he asked.
“At the second meeting Oxlade slipped a drug into the tea he served me. He called it his enhancer. I got the impression he concocts it himself. It was odorless and tasteless. The session started out as usual. I was in the middle of describing my most recent dream experience when I suddenly found myself falling into a waking nightmare.”
“What does that look like?”
“I began hallucinating. The walls and ceiling of the office appeared to dissolve. The furniture floated. It was all very bizarre. Thankfully I realized what was happening. I managed to suppress the hallucinations and get out of the office.” Maggie paused to take a sip of her champagne. “There was a struggle.”
“With Oxlade?”
“He came after me with a syringe full of a sedative. Claimed I was hysterical. Having a nervous breakdown.”
“I take it Oxlade lost the struggle?”
“I threw a few things at him. I remember a glass ashtray and a large vase of flowers.”
Sam nodded, impressed. “Nice work.”
Maggie glanced at him as if she didn’t quite know what to make of the compliment. “You believe me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Maybe because my story sounds like the imaginings of a hysterical woman? Among other things, Oxlade said I was prone to hysteria. Weak nerves, you see.”
“Oxlade wants you.”
Maggie sputtered on a sip of champagne and coughed once or twice. “Just to be clear, Oxlade’s interest in me isn’t personal. Well, it’s personal, but not—”
“Sexual? I could tell. What does he want?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot in the past few months. Pretty sure he wants to run experiments on me using his stupid enhancer drug.”
“Because of the way you dream?”
“Yes.”
“Why does he care that you are a lucid dreamer?”
Maggie tightened her grip on the champagne glass. “I can’t prove it, but I think he’s got some crazed notion of controlling my dreams.”
“Controlling your dreams?”
“That makes me sound paranoid, doesn’t it?”
“Well, sure, but I’m fine with paranoia. Sometimes it’s warranted. What would be the point of controlling your dreams, assuming such a thing would even be possible?”
“That,” Maggie said, “is a very good question. There is a theory that when we dream we are in a trancelike state that is similar to what happens when a person is hypnotized. I suspect Oxlade is convinced that if he can induce a lucid dreamstate with his drug, he will be able to control the dreamer.”
“By implanting a hypnotic suggestion while the person is dreaming?”
“Yes, I think so. I can’t imagine any other reason for wanting to control another person’s dreams. I think he selected me for his experiments because I frequently have lucid dreams naturally. He probably thought it would be easier to test his theories on someone like me.”
“Let me see if I’ve got this case doped out. In addition to chasing an imposter advice columnist and someone who is trying to blackmail the real columnist, we’re also dealing with a mad scientist who wants to run bizarre experiments on you?”
“In fairness, I don’t think Oxlade is mad—just obsessed,” Maggie said. “But yes, this case is complicated by his presence. You can understand why I wanted to employ a professional such as yourself.”
“Absolutely,” Sam said, his tone grave. “This is not a job for an amateur.”
Maggie chuckled. “Luckily for the sake of our partnership, I’ve read Hammett and I’ve seen enough detective movies to know that the wisecracks are an important aspect of your professional image.”
“That’s swell, but let’s get something straight here. We don’t have a partnership. I’m the detective. You are the client.”
“Yes, of course, but I didn’t want to point out that distinction, because it underscores the fact that I’m the one in charge.”
“It does?”
“Well, yes,” Maggie said. “I’m the one who will write the check for your services.”
She had a point. He decided not to pursue that angle. “I’ve got to say this private investigation work is turning out to be different from what I expected when I set up shop last week.”
“What did you expect?” she asked.
“When I opened the doors of Sage Investigations, I figured I’d be spending most of my time hiding in the bushes taking photos of men cheating on their wives or wives cheating on their husbands. Divorce work. Never thought I’d wind up in an evening jacket at a ritzy champagne reception for a bunch of people who want to learn how to control their own dreams.”
“You didn’t become a private investigator to do sleazy divorce work.”
The absolute certainty in her words made him take his eyes off the crowd long enough to glance at her.
“I didn’t?” he said.
“No. I realize there’s probably some money to be made in that line, but I advise you not to take those sorts of cases.”
He watched her for a moment, unaccountably fascinated. “Why did I open Sage Investigations?”
“I’m still working on that. I’ll let you know when I figure it out. Then I’ll be able to advise you on how to conduct your business. I’ve learned a lot as Aunt Cornelia’s assistant. I’m quite skilled at giving good advice.”