He was about to tell her he did not need business advice when a burst of flashbulbs lit up the night outside the entrance of the Institute. A ripple of awareness fluttered across the crowd. It was not the heated excitement that announced the arrival of a major Hollywood star, but it was clear someone of note was about to enter the room.
A moment later a woman swept through the door, pausing just long enough to make an entrance. Her bright red hair fell in deep waves around her shoulders. Her slinky red gown was cut very low in front. The glittering necklace draped around her throat looked heavy enough to sink her if she had the misfortune to fall into a swimming pool.
Sam listened to the low voices of nearby guests.
“That’s her, the advice columnist, Aunt Cornelia,” a woman whispered. “The paper had a photo of her at the Paradise.”
“I never imagined she would be so glamorous,” another woman remarked. “I always assumed she was older. More mature.”
“So did I,” the first woman said.
Arthur and Dolores Guilfoyle moved forward to greet “Cornelia.”
Arthur raised his voice, projecting it so that everyone in the suddenly hushed room could hear him.
“My dear Aunt Cornelia, it is an honor to have you with us this evening. A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
“That sounds lovely.” The woman calling herself Cornelia offered Guilfoyle a graceful hand sheathed in a red lace, elbow-length glove. “I am looking forward to attending your introductory lecture tomorrow. I’m convinced we can all benefit from the profound insights concealed in our dreams if only we can master the Guilfoyle Method.”
“I hope you will find my talk and the other sessions that will be held here at the Institute helpful.”
“I’m sure I will,” Cornelia said.
One of the dream guides offered her a glass of champagne. She accepted it and was immediately surrounded by a throng of people.
The noise level of the crowd climbed back to its pre-Cornelia level. Sam turned to Maggie.
“Interesting,” he said. “Looks like the fake Cornelia is working with the Guilfoyles to help promote the Method. Maybe this imposter business is nothing more than a marketing gimmick.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed like those of an Old West gunfighter. She set her champagne glass down on the alcove table with an ominous clink. “How dare that woman pretend to be Cornelia? I’m going to have a talk with that fraud right now.”
“Has it occurred to you that you will have a problem if you confront her and accuse her of being an imposter?”
“I can’t let this go on.”
“The problem,” Sam said evenly, “is proving she’s a fraud without revealing Lillian Dewhurst’s real identity.”
Maggie tapped one red-tipped fingernail on the table. “Damn.”
“People who are cornered are dangerous and unpredictable. Also, keep in mind it would be awkward to prove she is not the real Cornelia in front of a crowd.”
Maggie considered that briefly and finally sighed. She accepted the advice, but she didn’t like it. “Have you got another plan?”
“Yes.”
“What?” she asked, immediately perking up.
Her enthusiasm, as usual, made him nervous.
“We need more information,” he said, trying to sound cool and competent. You know, like a professional detective, Sage. “You’re paying me to deal with this situation. Let me do my job.”
“Damn,” Maggie said again.
“I’m giving you good advice.”
“People almost never take good advice.”
“I’ve noticed,” Sam said.
Chapter 10
Beverly Nevins stopped in front of a door at the end of a long, shadowed hall, her chest tight, her pulse racing.
She was about to execute the first step of the plan, and she was stunned to realize she was suddenly terrified. She told herself she could not turn back now. There was too much at stake.
She was standing in a dimly lit wing of the main building. She could no longer hear the noise of the champagne reception going on in the lobby. The walls of the old estate were thick. According to the brochure she had picked up in the lobby, they were riddled with old corridors that had once been used by the household staff and by Carson Flint’s houseguests, who took advantage of them to make clandestine visits to other people’s bedrooms.
She took a deep breath, opened the door, and moved into the small theater. She stopped just inside, startled by the wildly flickering lights. The source was a strange, disturbing version of a nightclub mirror ball on the stage. The device spun around. Instead of showering the space with pretty colored droplets, it emitted rapid flashes of harsh white light. Black-white-black-white-black-white.
The effect was disorienting. It created strange afterimages. She wanted to look away but for a moment she was transfixed. She did not sense the other presence in the room until she heard movement behind her.
She knew then that things had gone terribly wrong. She had to get out of the theater, back to the safety of the lobby.
The door closed.
“What?” she said. “Who’s there?”
There was no answer. With the door shut there was no light from the hall to modify the flickering lights. She tried to scramble backward, away from the shadowy figure, and nearly lost her balance.
“Stay away from me,” she warned.
She came up hard against the aisle seat in the last row. The shadow moved toward her. She could not make out a face. She continued to retreat, using the backs of the seats in the last row to guide her. If she got to the aisle on the far side of the theater, she could run toward the stage and perhaps escape into the wings.
The shadow closed in quickly. Beverly reached the last seat and turned to make a dash for the stage.
The needle burned when it struck her shoulder from behind. The sedative took effect quickly. She collapsed into the aisle seat.
She was unconscious when the killer injected another drug into her arm, the drug that stopped her heart.
Chapter 11
The reception was at its height. The lobby was packed, but Maggie knew the crowd would soon start to dwindle. People would be departing for dinner and a night on the town. This was Burning Cove, after all. Tomorrow the conference attendees would be listening to lectures and attending demonstrations, but tonight there would be dancing and cocktails in shadowy nightclubs and hotel lounges.
“The imposter will probably leave soon,” she said. “We should go out to the car and prepare to follow her.”
“What’s the point?” Sam kept his attention on the crowd. “She’s obviously in town with the goal of being noticed. She’ll be going to dinner at a fashionable restaurant and will then drop into a hot club. We won’t learn anything watching her drink and dance for the rest of the night.”
“What do you suggest?” Maggie asked, irritated but also curious.
“She’s a celebrity. Everyone in town is aware she’s here. It shouldn’t be hard to find out where she’s staying.”
“Right.” Maggie experienced a rush of excitement. “We locate her hotel and search her room while she’s out on the town tonight. l should have thought of that myself.”
“You just did. Consider the idea your own, because that wasn’t what I had in mind.”
She glanced at him, intrigued. “What’s your plan?”
“We’ll get the name of her hotel and call on her tomorrow morning when she’s likely to be alone.”
“What good will that do? You said yourself she’ll deny everything.”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “But we’ll learn a lot, not just by talking to her but by having an opportunity to catch her when she’s not playing Aunt Cornelia. She’ll be off balance.”
“Hmm.”
“Trust me, finding us at her door early tomorrow morning will make her very nervous,” Sam said. “She won’t have the safety of a crowd. She’ll be alone.”
“So?”
“Nervous people tend to panic. They make mistakes.”
“I suppose that is one approach to this situation. Nevertheless, I prefer my plan. We’ve got a perfect opportunity to search her hotel room tonight, assuming we can find out where she’s staying.”
“A perfect opportunity to get arrested for breaking and entering,” Sam said. “We’re sticking to my plan. I’m the expert, remember?”
“I know, but—”