“Someone else helped you with those phone calls?” Sam asked.
Startled by the sharp edge on the question, Maggie turned to look at him. It was eight thirty in the morning. Raina had called the hotel and left a message from Sam’s “aunt” a short time ago. He had returned the call from a pay phone. Raina had suggested the three of them meet in a secluded location to discuss her findings. They had gathered in a quiet corner of a small park.
“I have another investigator in my firm, Lyra Brazier,” Raina said. “Please don’t worry. She’s very good. I realize you are concerned with keeping this business confidential, but I assure you Lyra is trustworthy, and she has certain skills that are useful when it comes to getting information. I swear, it’s a psychic talent. People talk to her before they realize what’s going on.”
Sam nodded, satisfied.
“Don’t worry about the cost of the long-distance calls,” Maggie said. “Just add them to your bill.”
Raina looked amused. “I’ll do that. You said your employer is covering my fees and those of Mr. Sage?”
“That’s right,” Maggie said. “But I’m the one who will be writing the checks.”
“I see.”
Raina took out a notebook, opened it, and flipped through a few pages. Maggie caught a glimpse of the odd handwriting and was briefly sidetracked.
“Shorthand?” she asked, curious.
“I used to be a secretary,” Raina said. “Shorthand is not only efficient for taking notes in my current line of work, it guarantees a certain level of confidentiality.”
Sam raised his brows. “It’s almost a private code, isn’t it?”
“Exactly.” Raina found the page she was looking for and paused. “Here we go. Before she married Arthur Guilfoyle, Dolores was Dolores Johnson. She was the illegitimate daughter of Carson Flint and a failed starlet named Elizabeth Johnson.”
“Carson Flint the Hollywood producer?” Sam asked. “The man who built the estate that is now the Institute?”
“One and the same,” Raina said. “Flint died eighteen months ago. He ignored Dolores her whole life. He always maintained he was not her father. Dolores’s mother couldn’t prove otherwise, of course. She was fired by the studio as soon as word got out that she was pregnant.”
“What happened to her?” Maggie asked.
“She worked at lunch counters until her death a few years ago. Dolores got her mother’s looks and tried to become an actress. She landed a few small parts, but in the end she failed. She found work as a receptionist in the office of a doctor who specialized in dream analysis.”
“Is that how she met Arthur Guilfoyle?” Sam asked.
“Yes, but at the time he was a struggling actor named Arthur Ellis. Apparently he had dream issues.”
“I think he really is a lucid dreamer,” Maggie said. “It explains why he booked an appointment with that doctor.”
“True,” Raina said. “At any rate, it wasn’t long before Dolores and Arthur apparently realized there was money to be made in the dream business. They decided to go out on their own as a team.”
“How did they end up here in Burning Cove?” Sam asked.
“Dolores’s financial situation underwent a dramatic transformation when Carson Flint died,” Raina said. She turned a page in the notebook. “He had a change of heart after his son was killed in a motorcycle accident. Flint redid his will and left everything to Dolores. Mostly that meant the Summer House estate here in Burning Cove. There was some money, but not a lot, because Flint was hit hard by the crash and lost more when the Depression got underway. The Guilfoyles must have used every last penny to renovate and refurbish Summer House in order to convert it into the Institute.”
“When did Dolores Johnson and Arthur Ellis become the Guilfoyles?” Sam asked.
“They did not become Mr. and Mrs. Guilfoyle until Dolores discovered she had inherited the Flint estate,” Raina said.
“Hah,” Maggie said. “Arthur married her because she inherited Summer House.”
“The timing is somewhat questionable,” Raina said.
“But why the name change?” Sam asked.
“That,” Raina said, “is a very good question. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that four years ago, Dolores Johnson and Arthur Ellis were living in Keeley Point.”
Sam smiled slowly. “Well, damn.”
“According to the librarian at the Keeley Point Library, they were running ads in the local paper promoting the Ellis Dream Program. Arthur Ellis billed himself as the Dream Master. They both disappeared shortly after Virginia Jennaway was found dead on the beach.”
Maggie looked at Sam. “The Dream Master signature on the bracelet. That’s Arthur Guilfoyle.”
“That’s it.” Sam snapped his fingers. He went to stand at the edge of the small pond. “The blackmailer found out the couple now known as the Guilfoyles could be linked to the Jennaway death.”
“At this late date it won’t be possible to prove that either of the Guilfoyles drugged Jennaway on the night she drowned.”
“That’s the thing about blackmail, isn’t it?” Sam said. “The extortionist doesn’t have to prove that a crime was committed. All that is necessary is to threaten the target with public exposure. The fear of scandal and tarnished reputations does the rest.”
“Very true,” Raina said.
“But why blackmail Lillian Dewhurst?” Maggie said.
Sam turned away from the pond. “I’ve got a feeling Dewhurst was a target of opportunity. The blackmailer must have discovered that she was a member of the Astral Travelers Society for a while. Dewhurst has a big secret to protect—her identity. A scandal involving drugs and a dead woman could ruin her career.”
“How did the blackmailer know Aunt Cornelia would attend the conference?” Raina asked.
“There was no way to know,” Sam said. “That’s why the instructions in the note told her to purchase a ticket and attend the opening event.”
Raina nodded. “A target of opportunity, but not one of the primary targets. Things got confused because the imposter showed up claiming to be Cornelia.”
“I’m almost positive now that Nevins was the blackmailer,” Sam said.
“Who was murdered by one of her intended victims that first night,” Raina said. “That fits.”
“Where does all this leave us?” Maggie asked.
“It leaves Detective Brandon with a probable murder on his hands,” Sam said. “But I doubt he’ll be able to pursue the Nevins investigation. There isn’t any hard evidence, and no one seems to be applying pressure.”
“One thing is clear,” Raina said. She closed the notebook. “The Guilfoyles have to make the Institute pay off. If it doesn’t start making money soon, they will be destroyed financially.”
“Dreams and drugs,” Sam said. “You really can’t go wrong selling either one, can you?”
“Wrap up both in one package, tie it with a pretty ribbon, sell it to a few stars, and you’ve got the foundation of a financial empire,” Raina said. “Do you need anything else from me?”
“Not right now.” Sam took out a business card and gave it to her. “I appreciate the help. I owe you, and I’m happy to repay the favor. I’m in Adelina Beach. Call if there is anything I can do for you there. I’ve still got a few good connections in L.A., as well.”
Raina smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Our business runs on connections. I am always happy to find a new one.”
“Don’t forget the bill,” Maggie said.
“I won’t.” Raina looked at her. “One more thing before I leave.”
“Yes?”
“About the advice you suggested I give to the artist who painted the landscapes in Luther’s office.”
Maggie braced herself. “I’m sorry; I should have kept my mouth shut. I realize I had no business offering that advice.”
“I want to thank you,” Raina said.
“You do?”
“This morning when I stopped by Luther’s office to tell him I was on my way to meet you, I found him in his studio. Painting.”
“Another stormy landscape?” Maggie asked, her heart sinking.
Raina smiled. “No. Looked like a couple of doors in an endless hallway.”
Chapter 42