When She Dreams（Burning Cove #6）(27)

“Beats divorce work.”

“Anything would.” Brandon thought for a couple of beats. “You’ll give me a call if there’s anything I need to know, right?”

“Yes. And thanks.”

“For what?”

“Your discretion,” Sam said. “It’s appreciated.”

“That’s me. Fucking discreet.”

Without another word they walked back inside. Brandon summoned his officers and headed toward the lobby. The Guilfoyles and Maggie were the only ones left in the corridor outside the theater.

Arthur Guilfoyle eyed Sam with suspicion. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to lock up now.”

“Right,” Sam said. He took Maggie’s arm. “We’ll be on our way.”

Maggie waited until they were out in the parking lot before she spoke.

“What did Detective Brandon want?” she asked.

“He doped out that I used to be a cop.” Sam opened the passenger side door of the Packard. “Asked a few questions.”

Maggie stopped. “He knows you were a police detective?”

“Cops usually recognize each other. Don’t worry, Brandon won’t be a problem, at least not for a while. I told him enough to keep him satisfied. We agreed I’ll call him if I come across anything he ought to know.”

Maggie looked anxious. “Did you tell him about Lillian Dewhurst?”

“No. At the moment his only concerns are Nevins’s death and the possibility that someone is dealing drugs here at the Institute.”

Maggie relaxed. “Good.” She slipped into the front seat of the convertible and looked up. “You don’t think that Beverly Nevins died of an accidental overdose, do you?”

“I can’t rule it out, but I doubt it.”

“I agree,” Maggie said. “Something terrible happened in that little theater tonight, Sam.”

“I know,” he said.

He closed the door, rounded the long hood of the Packard, and got behind the wheel. He fired up the big engine and drove toward the road.

“What are you thinking?” Maggie asked.

“I’m thinking we had better have our chat with the fake Cornelia tonight,” he said.

“You told me it was too soon to confront her. You said we needed more information and that I had no way to prove she’s a fraud.”

“The death of Beverly Nevins changes things. The imposter was shocked and badly frightened when she came running out of the theater tonight. Frightened people don’t think clearly. They make mistakes. Sometimes they tell you more than they realize. You just have to know how to listen.”

“That theory actually works?”

“According to Detective Magazine, it never fails.”





Chapter 13




There were three cottages scattered across the bluffs overlooking the moonlit Pacific. It wasn’t hard to figure out which one belonged to the fake Cornelia. Two of the three were dark, with no cars parked in the driveways.

The door of number three was open and the lights inside were on. There were two suitcases on the front steps. The imposter was busy stuffing a third grip into the trunk of a Ford sedan. She was no longer wearing the glamorous evening gown and her hair—now brown—was tightly pinned. She had on a pair of wide-legged trousers and a pullover sweater. Dressed for travel.

“I knew that red hair was a wig,” Maggie said. Outrage shot through her. “She’s leaving town.”

“I had a feeling she might be running,” Sam said.

He pulled into the drive and brought the Packard to a halt behind the sedan, effectively blocking the path to the main road. The fake Cornelia was trapped in the glare of the headlights. She whirled around. The expression on her face was all too easy to read.

“She’s scared to death,” Maggie said.

Sam shut down the engine and the headlights. He opened the car door. “The question is, what is she scared of?”

He climbed out from behind the wheel and stood beside the front fender. “Take it easy—I’m not a cop, and we had nothing to do with Beverly Nevins’s death.”

The imposter stared at him. “She was murdered, wasn’t she? I knew it. Someone killed her.”

“They’re calling it a probable accidental overdose,” Sam said. “But it’s obvious you aren’t buying that story. Neither are we. We want to ask you a few questions.”

Maggie jumped out of the convertible. “He’s right. Just some questions, that’s all.”

“Who are you?” The imposter retreated a step. “What do you want? I don’t have any money. The clothes aren’t mine. I didn’t pay for the cottage. It’s just a job, damn it.”

Sam reached inside his jacket. The imposter’s eyes widened in horror.

“No,” she squeaked. “Please, don’t shoot me.”

“My business card,” he said. He held it out to her. “Sam Sage, Sage Investigations. Miss Lodge is my client.”

The imposter looked at the card as if she had never seen one before. After a few seconds she moved forward, snatched it out of Sam’s hand, and hastily retreated a few paces.

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”