Raina’s eyes widened. “What will you do when you’re not blending teas and tisanes?”
“I plan to establish a private library of herbals and other books on the medicinal uses of plants. It will be open to scholars and researchers.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of new dreams,” Raina said. “What about Jake?”
“As it happens, he does have a job.”
Raina laughed. “Yes, I know, Luther told me that he writes those Cooper Boone spy novels. What I meant was, will he be staying here in Burning Cove?”
A sense of happiness sparkled through Adelaide. “Yes. He plans to stay in Burning Cove.”
“With you?” Raina asked.
“With me.”
“That is very good news,” Raina said. “We must get together soon and celebrate.”
“Great idea.”
“But not tonight,” Raina said. She smiled a small, secretive smile. “I’ve got plans for tonight.”
“Jake and I have plans for this evening, too, but maybe tomorrow . . . Wait. What do you mean you’ve got plans for tonight? Something to do with your new case?”
“No. I’ve been invited to the Paradise Club for cocktails and dinner.”
Adelaide raised her brows. “With Luther?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know the Paradise Club served dinner.”
“It doesn’t. Dinner will be in Luther’s private quarters above the club. He is sending a car to pick me up.”
“That,” Adelaide said, “sounds very interesting.”
Raina’s smiled widened. “I certainly thought so.”
Adelaide cleared her throat. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but as your friend I feel obliged to point out that Pell has a reputation for being connected to some dangerous people.”
“Look who’s talking. You’re not exactly dating a Boy Scout, are you?”
Adelaide laughed. “All right, you’ve got me there. And, to be fair, Luther and Jake aren’t dating Girl Scouts, are they? Look at us. We’re not the sort of high-class ladies that nice guys take home to meet their mothers. I’m an escapee from an insane asylum and you’re a private detective who investigates people with shady pasts.”
“The way I look at it, what we lack in polish and refinement we more than make up for with a quality that, I do believe, is highly valued by men like Luther and Jake.”
“Ah, yes.” Adelaide smiled. “We are interesting women.”
“Precisely. I doubt that they will ever find us dull or boring.”
“We can say the same about them, can’t we? They may be complicated at times. And stubborn. Even difficult.”
“But if either of us ever vanished, they would both walk into hell to find us.”
“Yes,” Adelaide said. She smiled. “Yes, they would.”
Chapter 52
She drove back to the cottage, parked in the small garage, and took the hatbox out of the trunk. It occurred to her as she went up the front steps that she could afford a larger place now. But she had grown oddly attached to the little house. Because Jake moved in with me, she thought. It was his presence that made the cottage feel like home.
Taking the key out of her handbag, she let herself into the small, cozy house. She headed for the kitchen, set the hatbox on the table, and put the kettle on the stove. Next she spooned her strongest tea into a pot. She needed to do some serious thinking.
While she waited for the water to boil, she lounged against the counter, folded her arms, and contemplated Madam Zolanda’s final prediction.
So many things had been explained, yet the circumstances of the blackmailer’s death remained murky. Why the melodramatic ending to her final performance?
Melodramatic performance.
Zolanda had been a very skilled actress but she had failed to become a Hollywood star.
On the night of her last show, Zolanda had held a crowded theater spellbound with her last psychic prediction. It was as if she had been trying to prove that she really was psychic.
Or trying to prove that she could act the role of a powerful psychic.
Adelaide unfolded her arms, pushed herself away from the counter, and grabbed the phone book. She looked up the number and reached for the receiver.
“Burning Cove Herald. How may I direct your call?”
“Irene Ward on the crime desk, please,” Adelaide said. “Tell her Adelaide Blake is calling. No, wait, she knows me as Adelaide Brockton.”
Sounding distracted, Irene came on the line.
“Hi, Adelaide. I just heard that Dr. Paxton, the diet doctor to the stars, died under suspicious circumstances. I also heard you were on the scene. I was about to call you for details.”
“I promise I’ll tell you all about it, but first I have a question about Madam Zolanda’s final prediction.”
“Dr. Skipton finally ruled Zolanda’s death a suicide. I think Detective Brandon has his doubts but he’s got no way to prove murder.”
“Yes, well, it looks like Thelma Leggett killed Zolanda. But that’s not what I wanted—”
“Hang on, let me get a pencil.”
“I’ll tell you everything later. Right now I need to know who was in the crowd at the Palace Theater that night when Zolanda predicted a death before morning.”
“Are you kidding? There must have been a couple of hundred people at the Palace that night.”
“Yes, but many were locals. I’m talking about Hollywood people. I’m sure that’s a relatively small number. I’m wondering if there were any directors, producers, or talent scouts in the audience.”
“Is it important?”
“I think it may be, yes.”
“Hang on, I’ll check with Trish. She covers celebrity news. She’ll know if there were any studio executives in the audience that night.”
Adelaide heard the telephone receiver clatter on the desk. She listened to the background din of the small but busy newsroom—typewriter keys clacked and a man shouted something about a deadline.
Irene came back a short time later.
“Trish says that there were a couple of actors who were staying at the Burning Cove, including Miss Westlake, in the audience. Douglas Holton was also there.”
“The director?”
“Yes. No one knew he was in town until he showed up at the Palace. Trish says he’s rumored to be looking for a new face for a key role in a film he’s going to be directing.”
“Does Trish know what the film is about?”
“Hang on, I’ll ask her.”
When Irene came back on the line a short time later, she sounded breathless.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “Trish tells me it’s a very hush-hush project but there is a rumor that it involves a psychic who predicts murders.”
Adelaide stared at the wall, understanding washing through her with such certainty that she felt a little dizzy.
“Zolanda thought she was auditioning for a role in that movie.”
“Do you really think so? Well, anything’s possible when it comes to actors. They’ve been known to do some very strange things if they believe that it will land them a role in a film. Still—”
“If I’m right, Zolanda was conned into setting the scene for her own murder.”
“In that case, it must have been Paxton who set her up,” Irene said thoughtfully. “He was the one with Hollywood connections, not Gill. Maybe he told her that a famous director was in the audience and that he was looking for someone to play the role of a psychic. Zolanda fell for it.”
“He promised her what all successful con artists promise their marks—a shot at something they want very, very much.”
“But she was a con artist herself.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Adelaide said. “If anything, it made her even more vulnerable. She was probably convinced that she couldn’t be conned because she knew all the tricks. But logic and common sense go out the window in a heartbeat if the deceiver offers you something you want very badly.”
“You’re right. And it does answer the question of why Zolanda gave that creepy final act. Do you realize what this means?” Excitement sparked in Irene’s voice. “I’ll get one more front-page headline out of the dead psychic story. My pieces on Zolanda have all gone national. Wouldn’t be surprised if this one does, too.”