“I got it this morning. It arrived in a bag of reader mail sent to my employer’s address by the editor of the Courier.”
Sam glanced at the envelope. “No return address, but it’s postmarked L.A. How is this letter different?”
A reasonable question. At least he was paying attention. That was encouraging.
“It’s very specific,” she said. “Someone appears to believe Aunt Cornelia is responsible for the murder of a woman named Virginia Jennaway.”
“Who is Aunt Cornelia?”
“Me, at the moment.”
“Your name is Cornelia Lodge?” Sam asked. “I thought you said your name was Margaret Lodge.”
“My name is Margaret Lodge. I work for the real Aunt Cornelia, Lillian Dewhurst. She’s currently out of the country on a voyage to the South Seas. I’ve been handling the column for her while she’s gone. So, yes, I am Aunt Cornelia for now, but whoever sent the letter has no way of knowing that.”
“You’re certain the blackmailer didn’t aim the letter at you?”
“Of course I’m certain. I have no idea who Virginia Jennaway is—or, rather, was.”
“Jennaway,” he repeated.
“I realize this all sounds a bit confusing, Mr. Sage.”
“A bit,” he said.
She sighed. “Obviously I’m going too fast for you.”
“Not the first time that’s happened to me. I’m used to it. Please continue.”
Maybe he wasn’t very sharp. That was a depressing thought. She had already concluded she did not want to hire either of the other two private investigators in town. She had interviewed both—briefly—that morning. Adelina Beach was a pleasant community just outside L.A. It was home to a scattering of celebrities and it boasted some exclusive shopping districts. It did not have much to offer in the way of seedy neighborhoods, but Sage’s competitors had managed to find the two that did exist.
One step into the offices of the other detectives had been enough to tell her neither man would be a good bet. The first had been intoxicated even though it was only nine o’clock. The other had struck her as decidedly shady, the sort who would take a bribe to look the other way.
Sam Sage was not drunk, and he looked reasonably intelligent, or at least competent. He did not appear to be shady, but one could never be sure. She had a spectacularly failed engagement behind her to prove that her talent for lucid dreaming did not give her an edge when it came to judging the trustworthiness of other people.
“Allow me to explain,” she said, striving for patience.
“Take your time.”
That did not sit well. It was alarmingly close to calm down, which, in turn, usually came right before you’re getting hysterical.
If any of those words came out of his mouth, she would lose her temper and walk out the door. She did not want to do that. She had to get control of the situation and establish herself as the client, the one who was paying the bill and who was, therefore, in charge, because she was out of options. It was Sage Investigations or the Los Angeles phone book.
The thought of trying to find a reliable, trustworthy private investigator in the L.A. phone book was daunting. The town had a well-earned reputation for corruption. The fault line ran from the big studios straight through the police department and all the way to the courts. It was an open secret. Private investigators working in that environment were very likely to be caught up in the system. She needed someone who could not be bought, someone she could trust.
She gave Sam a steely smile, rose to her feet, plucked the copy of the Adelina Beach Courier off the desk, and opened it to the Home & Hearth section. She positioned the page directly in front of Sam.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” she said. “Perhaps that will make it easier for you to follow along.”
“Thank you, that would be very helpful.”
Reining in her temper, she pointed at the Dear Aunt Cornelia advice column. “This is Aunt Cornelia. As I told you, I have been writing the column recently, but almost no one knows that.”
He looked at the column and read the first letter aloud:
Dear Aunt Cornelia,
If a woman discovers three weeks before the wedding that her fiancé is having an affair, should she break off the engagement? This man has apologized and begged for forgiveness. He swears it will never happen again. The woman’s parents and friends think she should go through with the wedding.
Signed,
Asking for a Friend
Dear Asking for a Friend:
Leopards don’t change their spots. If your friend marries a man who cheats before marriage, she will get a man who will cheat after marriage. You wrote to Aunt Cornelia because your friend has doubts. That is her intuition shouting at her, trying to get her attention. She should listen.
Signed,
Aunt Cornelia
Sam looked up. “You wrote that answer?”
“Yes.”
Sam whistled softly. “You’re one tough lady. What? You don’t believe in giving a guy a second chance?”
“I merely pointed out the obvious to Asking for a Friend.”
“Did your advice come from personal experience?”
“That,” she said, “is none of your business.”
“Thought so. Personal experience.”
Maggie sat down. “There is an enormous amount of pressure brought to bear on a bride who cancels the wedding shortly before the ceremony. A woman who abandons a man almost at the altar acquires a certain reputation, you see, regardless of her reasons.”
“What kind of reputation?” Sam asked.
“Some will say she had an emotional breakdown and that it indicates she suffers from weak nerves. Others will tell her she is being hysterical and instruct her to calm down.”
“I see.”
“And then there is the social side of the matter. The bride will be informed that she can’t call off the wedding at the last minute because she will embarrass her family. On top of the humiliation, there are the expenses involved. The catering fees. The flowers. The champagne. The wedding gown. And what about all those wedding gifts the guests have already purchased?”
Sam nodded. “Definitely personal experience talking. Think Asking for a Friend’s friend will take your advice?”
“Who knows?” Maggie sighed. “People are very quick to ask for advice, but they rarely take it. The truth is, all they usually want to do is whine about their problems. They lack the fortitude and determination it takes to actually do something about them.”
“Interesting.” Sam leaned back. The chair squeaked. “That’s certainly been my experience. Who would have thought the private detective business and the advice columnist profession would have anything in common?”
A flicker of intuition told her he was not being sarcastic this time. Just quietly amused. That was annoying. She was not here to entertain him.
“How would you have answered Asking for a Friend’s letter?” she asked.
“Same way you did,” he said.
She relaxed a little.
“Don’t worry, I am prepared to pay you for your time,” she said.
“I am glad to hear that. I appreciate your patience, because until this morning I had never heard of Aunt Cornelia.”
“Do you, perhaps, limit yourself to the sports page of the papers?”
“I’ve been known to read the comics.”
She gave him a chilly smile. “That explains why you aren’t aware of the Dear Aunt Cornelia column. It happens to be one of the most widely syndicated advice columns in the country. It started in the Adelina Beach Courier and it appears six days a week in the Home and Hearth section. That comes right after the society page.”
“I only read the Society page when I’m working a case that involves that crowd, which is, frankly, as seldom as possible,” he said.
Her curiosity spiked. “You’ve conducted investigations in society?”
“I was a homicide detective for a few years,” he said. “I know you’ll be shocked to hear this, but rich and famous people kill each other, too.”
“Were you good at your job?”
“Yes, I was, but like you, I found the work frustrating.”
“Why?”
“Rich and famous people kill each other but they rarely go to prison.”
She nodded. “Money equals power, and power leads to corruption.”