When She Dreams（Burning Cove #6）(22)
“You didn’t become a private investigator to do sleazy divorce work.”
The absolute certainty in her words made him take his eyes off the crowd long enough to glance at her.
“I didn’t?” he said.
“No. I realize there’s probably some money to be made in that line, but I advise you not to take those sorts of cases.”
He watched her for a moment, unaccountably fascinated. “Why did I open Sage Investigations?”
“I’m still working on that. I’ll let you know when I figure it out. Then I’ll be able to advise you on how to conduct your business. I’ve learned a lot as Aunt Cornelia’s assistant. I’m quite skilled at giving good advice.”
He was about to tell her he did not need business advice when a burst of flashbulbs lit up the night outside the entrance of the Institute. A ripple of awareness fluttered across the crowd. It was not the heated excitement that announced the arrival of a major Hollywood star, but it was clear someone of note was about to enter the room.
A moment later a woman swept through the door, pausing just long enough to make an entrance. Her bright red hair fell in deep waves around her shoulders. Her slinky red gown was cut very low in front. The glittering necklace draped around her throat looked heavy enough to sink her if she had the misfortune to fall into a swimming pool.
Sam listened to the low voices of nearby guests.
“That’s her, the advice columnist, Aunt Cornelia,” a woman whispered. “The paper had a photo of her at the Paradise.”
“I never imagined she would be so glamorous,” another woman remarked. “I always assumed she was older. More mature.”
“So did I,” the first woman said.
Arthur and Dolores Guilfoyle moved forward to greet “Cornelia.”
Arthur raised his voice, projecting it so that everyone in the suddenly hushed room could hear him.
“My dear Aunt Cornelia, it is an honor to have you with us this evening. A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
“That sounds lovely.” The woman calling herself Cornelia offered Guilfoyle a graceful hand sheathed in a red lace, elbow-length glove. “I am looking forward to attending your introductory lecture tomorrow. I’m convinced we can all benefit from the profound insights concealed in our dreams if only we can master the Guilfoyle Method.”
“I hope you will find my talk and the other sessions that will be held here at the Institute helpful.”
“I’m sure I will,” Cornelia said.
One of the dream guides offered her a glass of champagne. She accepted it and was immediately surrounded by a throng of people.
The noise level of the crowd climbed back to its pre-Cornelia level. Sam turned to Maggie.
“Interesting,” he said. “Looks like the fake Cornelia is working with the Guilfoyles to help promote the Method. Maybe this imposter business is nothing more than a marketing gimmick.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed like those of an Old West gunfighter. She set her champagne glass down on the alcove table with an ominous clink. “How dare that woman pretend to be Cornelia? I’m going to have a talk with that fraud right now.”
“Has it occurred to you that you will have a problem if you confront her and accuse her of being an imposter?”
“I can’t let this go on.”
“The problem,” Sam said evenly, “is proving she’s a fraud without revealing Lillian Dewhurst’s real identity.”
Maggie tapped one red-tipped fingernail on the table. “Damn.”
“People who are cornered are dangerous and unpredictable. Also, keep in mind it would be awkward to prove she is not the real Cornelia in front of a crowd.”
Maggie considered that briefly and finally sighed. She accepted the advice, but she didn’t like it. “Have you got another plan?”
“Yes.”
“What?” she asked, immediately perking up.
Her enthusiasm, as usual, made him nervous.
“We need more information,” he said, trying to sound cool and competent. You know, like a professional detective, Sage. “You’re paying me to deal with this situation. Let me do my job.”
“Damn,” Maggie said again.
“I’m giving you good advice.”
“People almost never take good advice.”
“I’ve noticed,” Sam said.
Chapter 10
Beverly Nevins stopped in front of a door at the end of a long, shadowed hall, her chest tight, her pulse racing.
She was about to execute the first step of the plan, and she was stunned to realize she was suddenly terrified. She told herself she could not turn back now. There was too much at stake.
She was standing in a dimly lit wing of the main building. She could no longer hear the noise of the champagne reception going on in the lobby. The walls of the old estate were thick. According to the brochure she had picked up in the lobby, they were riddled with old corridors that had once been used by the household staff and by Carson Flint’s houseguests, who took advantage of them to make clandestine visits to other people’s bedrooms.
She took a deep breath, opened the door, and moved into the small theater. She stopped just inside, startled by the wildly flickering lights. The source was a strange, disturbing version of a nightclub mirror ball on the stage. The device spun around. Instead of showering the space with pretty colored droplets, it emitted rapid flashes of harsh white light. Black-white-black-white-black-white.