He pulled the trigger. There was a distinct click followed by several more clicks as he jerked the trigger again and again.
Detective Brandon and two uniformed officers appeared on the terrace and walked through the open doors.
“That’ll be enough of that nonsense,” Brandon said. “Arthur Guilfoyle or Arthur Ellis or whatever the hell your name is, you’re under arrest for the murder of Dr. Emerson Oxlade and the attempted murder of Sam Sage. There will be some other charges, too, but we’ll talk about that later.”
Arthur stared at Sam, stunned. “How?”
“I found the pistol in your desk drawer when I searched your office last night,” Sam said. “Seemed like a good idea to remove the cartridges. I was reasonably certain you wouldn’t think to check the pistol, because you’re sloppy and impulsive. Not good with details.”
Arthur roared, a primal scream of rage. He jerked free of the officers’ grip, seized the iron poker from the stand on the hearth, and charged Sam.
“Shit,” Sam said. “Not again.”
He dove for the carpet. The poker punched the air overhead. Arthur was thrown off balance when he missed his target. He tried frantically to recover and swing the poker. Sam grabbed one of his ankles and yanked him off his feet. He landed hard on the tile floor.
The officers seized him and wrestled him into handcuffs.
Brandon looked at Sam. “You said odds were good he’d try to make a run for it when he realized he’d lost control of the situation today. Doesn’t look like that’s what happened.”
“What can I tell you?” Sam brushed off his trousers and straightened his tie. “It’s been a screwy case from the start.”
“Maybe you should stick with divorce work.”
“I’ve been advised not to take those jobs.”
“Yeah?” Brandon eyed him. “Who told you that?”
“Aunt Cornelia.”
Brandon nodded. “My wife says you can’t go wrong with Aunt Cornelia’s advice.”
Chapter 49
What is it with you and household furnishings?” Maggie asked. “First a coatrack and now a poker.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Sam said. He drank some iced tea and settled deeper into the cushions of the lounge chair. “But when we get back to Adelina Beach, I think I’ll get rid of any item that could be used to crack my skull. No point taking chances.”
They were reclining side by side on the private patio of a guest villa at the legendary Burning Cove Hotel. The secluded suite at the luxury resort had been provided courtesy of Luther Pell, whose connections apparently included not only high-ranking figures in the underworld but also the management of the hotel.
Maggie had made the decision to accept the invitation to spend a couple of extra days in Burning Cove, and Sam was determined to enjoy every minute of it. He had no idea what would happen when they returned to Adelina Beach, but for now he was living a real-life dream with Maggie.
The morning fog had burned off. The scent of citrus trees wafted on the warm breeze. Palms shaded the grounds. He and Maggie had reservations for dinner at the hotel restaurant. Later they would take a taxi to the Paradise Club, where they would join Luther Pell and Raina Kirk for drinks and dancing.
This was the fantasy of Southern California life, the dream the studios and the resorts and the travel agencies sold to the rest of the country and the world. It was, Sam thought, a damn good fantasy—it felt real—but it wouldn’t have worked without the woman beside him.
Life was good—for now. But the future was in Adelina Beach, and he wasn’t sure what to expect when reality descended. He had to find a way to keep Maggie close. He needed a plan.
Maggie picked up her glass of iced tea. “Call me psychic, but I have a feeling your previous unfortunate encounter with furniture—the coatrack incident—is somehow connected to the reason you decided to open a private investigation agency in Adelina Beach.”
“Lucky guess,” he said.
“Intuition,” she said.
“Okay, maybe intuition.”
“I told you how I wound up in Adelina Beach. Feel like telling me how you got there?”
He went silent for a moment, sorting through the bits and pieces of the past that he stored in his personal mental attic.
“It’s messy,” he warned.
“So was my story, if you will recall.”
“I told you I used to be a homicide cop in L.A. I led a small team that rescued a woman who had been kidnapped for ransom. Elizabeth was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. Afterward she decided I was a hero. I liked being one. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful and glamorous and exciting.”
“The two of you fell in love?”
“Or something that felt like love. Her parents objected, of course. Mine were not exactly enthusiastic, either. We ran off to Reno to get married. It was a mistake. Her family was furious. They were sure I was after her money.”
“What about your family?”
“My parents have a farm in Washington State, just outside of Walla Walla. They’re big on common sense. They knew the marriage was headed for disaster, but after the deed was done they tried to be supportive. Things started falling apart right at the start. It rapidly became apparent I didn’t fit in with Elizabeth’s high-society crowd and she didn’t approve of my job.”
“She fell for a hero and then discovered heroes come with a side of reality,” Maggie said. “You were enchanted with the beautiful princess you saved and then found out that princesses are real people, too.”
“You sound like an advice columnist,” he said.
“I do, don’t I?”
“Things went from fantasy to reality in a matter of months. Elizabeth wanted me to quit my job and take a position in her father’s company. I declined. Couldn’t see myself sitting in an office all day long working on budgets, marketing, contracts, and all the rest of the stuff that goes with business. Elizabeth’s parents insisted on giving us a very nice, very big house. Elizabeth redid my wardrobe so that I wouldn’t embarrass her at social gatherings.”
Maggie smiled. “But you managed to do that anyway.”
He held up one finger. “Another lucky guess. As I was saying, things continued on a downward trajectory. Then I got saddled with the Chichester case. Still listening? Let me know if I’m boring you.”
“I’m riveted,” Maggie said.
“Why?”
“I’m always intrigued by drama, real or fictional. Character flaw.”
“Because you’re a writer?”
“Yep. And don’t try to tell me you don’t have the same quirk.”
He turned his head to look at her. “What makes you say that?”
“Simple. You became a cop, and now you’re a private detective. Talk about career paths that are focused on human drama. What makes us different from other people is that we are compelled to find answers and fix the problems that create the drama. We want to somehow make things right. I try to do it in my writing. You do it every time you take a case.”
He considered that for a long moment. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Go on with your story.”
“There’s not much more to tell. I was assigned to what became known as the Bloody Scarf Murders. The killer sliced his victims to death with a knife, soaked scarves in their blood, and tied them around the women’s throats.”
“I remember the headlines,” Maggie said.
“There were a lot of them after I arrested Chichester. He was out on bail within hours. The family was furious. He managed to find the address of the house where I had been living with Elizabeth. He planned to murder her. It was his idea of punishing me. But she had moved back into her parents’ mansion by then. I was the only one in the house. Chichester came after me instead. He had a knife. There was a struggle. I used the coatrack to defend myself. In the end we fought for control of the damn thing. I won.”