This doesn’t make any sense,” Dolores Guilfoyle said. “There is no one named Finley in marketing or anywhere else here at the Institute. I don’t understand why that woman, Phyllis Gaines or whatever her name is, would tell you she was hired to pretend to be Aunt Cornelia.”
“She was very upset,” Maggie said. “Finding the body of Beverly Nevins was a shock to her nerves. It certainly rattled mine.”
The news of the death had appeared on page two of the Burning Cove Herald under the headline Tragedy Mars Opening of Dream Conference. Nevins’s death had been attributed to natural causes. There was no mention of the dream generator or drugs. There was also no indication the death had dampened enthusiasm for the conference. Eager attendees thronged the lobby of the Institute.
It had not been difficult to track down Dolores Guilfoyle. At a quarter to ten they had found her stationed at the entrance to the main lecture hall, greeting people as they filed into the large room to take their seats. There was no sign of her husband.
When Maggie had mentioned that Phyllis Gaines had left town during the night, Dolores had not appeared to recognize the name. Sam’s casual observation that Gaines had been masquerading as Aunt Cornelia, however, had hit Guilfoyle like a jolt of electricity.
“That can’t be right,” she hissed. “I don’t believe it.”
Sam shrugged. “That’s what she told us. Gaines could have been lying, but it didn’t look that way. Why would she be?”
“This . . . this is shocking,” Dolores whispered.
As far as Maggie could tell, the alarm in her eyes was genuine.
Dolores raised a finger to get the attention of a nearby dream guide. The attractive young woman hurried forward. When she got close, Maggie was able to read her name tag: Valerie Warren.
“Yes, Mrs. Guilfoyle?” Valerie said.
She was polite; an employee showing the proper degree of respect to her boss. But it struck Maggie that she was a little too polite and deferential—as if she was trying to conceal her dislike of the other woman.
“Please welcome the rest of our guests to Mr. Guilfoyle’s lecture,” Dolores said. “I have some business to discuss with Miss Lodge and her research assistant.”
There was a glacial edge on her words. Evidently she didn’t like Valerie any more than Valerie liked her.
A scene from last night’s dream flashed through Maggie’s memory. She saw herself opening a door and finding Dolores Guilfoyle inside the room. Dolores’s words echoed faintly in the shadows: Stay away from my husband.
“Yes, Mrs. Guilfoyle,” Valerie said.
She rushed back to the entrance of the lecture hall.
Dolores looked at Maggie and Sam. “Please come with me.”
She led the way to a quiet alcove and then turned to confront them.
“Are you absolutely certain Phyllis Gaines was impersonating Aunt Cornelia?” she said.
“There is no doubt about it,” Maggie said.
“Damn.” Dolores’s elegant jaw tensed. “May I ask what made you drive to that woman’s cottage last night?”
“We were on our way into town to find a restaurant,” Sam said. “We took Cliff Road. When we passed the cottage where Aunt Cornelia was staying, we noticed she was putting suitcases into her car. It was obvious she was about to leave.”
Maggie was impressed with the smooth way he delivered his lines. She was determined to give an equally good performance. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had a lot of practice deceiving people into thinking she did not belong in an asylum. She was a rather skilled liar herself.
“I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tell Aunt Cornelia how much I enjoy her columns,” she said. “We stopped to talk to her, and that’s when she told us she wasn’t the real Cornelia.”
“Bizarre.” Dolores shook her head. “Absolutely bizarre. I realize there is no shortage of frauds in the world, but this is astonishing. I can’t understand why she would do such a thing. All I can tell you is that Phyllis Gaines convinced my husband and me, as well as the local press, that she was the real Aunt Cornelia.”
“It did make for some great publicity for the Institute,” Sam said.
Fury blazed in Dolores’s eyes. “I can assure you no one affiliated with the Institute hired anyone to impersonate Cornelia for marketing purposes or for any other reason. That’s not how we do things here.” She paused, eyes widening. “When word gets out that the Institute was taken in by a charlatan, we will become a laughingstock.”
Maggie summoned up a reassuring smile. “I assure you, Mr. Sage and I have no reason to gossip about Phyllis Gaines.”
That much was true, she thought.
“Thank you.” Dolores sighed. “I would take it as an enormous favor if you would not mention your conversation with Gaines, but I’m afraid it will be impossible to keep this news out of the papers. People are bound to notice that Aunt Cornelia has suddenly disappeared. There will be questions. Rumors. If a reporter gets curious, we will be doomed.”
“Would you like some advice?” Maggie asked.
Dolores hesitated, wary but curious. “What is it?”
“I agree with you,” Maggie said. “The news of the imposter is bound to get out sooner or later. But if the Institute moved fast and took credit for unmasking the fake Cornelia, it might actually enhance the reputation of the Guilfoyle Method.”
Dolores appeared to have been struck by electricity for the second time. An instant later, excitement lit her eyes.
“That is a brilliant idea, Miss Lodge,” she said. “I should have thought of it myself. If Arthur announces in his opening lecture that during the night he experienced a lucid dream that allowed him to detect the deception, we can take control of this situation. He will be able to offer proof of the effectiveness of the Method. Excuse me. I must speak to him immediately. He is scheduled to go onstage in a few minutes.”
She started to turn away.
“One more thing,” Sam said. “Ever heard of the Traveler? He’s supposed to be a sort of dream assassin.”
Dolores stopped suddenly and turned back to stare at him. “I don’t understand. Who told you about that old legend?”
“Someone mentioned it recently,” Sam said. “I was just curious. Part of my job as Miss Lodge’s assistant is to note interesting tales that circulate in the world of lucid dreamers.”
“Forget the Traveler,” Dolores said. “It’s just a silly myth that has been floating around the dream research community for years. I don’t have time to go into the details now—I must speak to Arthur before he goes onstage.”
Sam watched thoughtfully as Dolores vanished around the corner. “I got the impression she’s a little more concerned about the legend of the Traveler than she let on.”
“She certainly recognized the story,” Maggie said. “But anyone who is as familiar with dream theories and analysis as she is would have heard about the Traveler.”
“She wasn’t just familiar with the legend; she was worried about it,” Sam said. “Trust me.”
“I hired you for your professional intuition,” Maggie said. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“My professional intuition got me fired from my last job.”
“Obviously you were working for the wrong employer.”
They walked out of the alcove, heading for the doors of the lecture hall. Sam’s mouth kicked up at the corner.
“You know, that was a very sharp suggestion you gave Dolores Guilfoyle,” he said. “If her husband takes your advice and pretends he uncovered Phyllis Gaines’s deception in a lucid dream, the Institute might end up with some great publicity.”
“I didn’t offer the advice to help the Guilfoyles polish the image of the Institute. I’m hoping my version gets into the newspapers because it will ensure that everyone knows the redhead seen partying at a nightclub in Burning Cove was not the real Aunt Cornelia.”
“Got it,” Sam said. “You’re trying to protect your employer’s reputation. Smart move.”