When She Dreams（Burning Cove #6）(38)

“EN?” Maggie raised her brows. “Beverly Nevins’s initials would be BN.”

“This bracelet may have belonged to someone else.”

“True.”

Maggie touched the bracelet gingerly with a fingertip. Sam watched intently, but he didn’t say anything.

“Hmm,” she said.

“Well?” he asked.

She raised her eyes to meet his, wondering if he was going to make a crack about her dream talent. But one look at him told her he was in a very serious mood.

“It looks exactly the same as Lillian’s except for the inscription,” she said. “But it doesn’t affect my senses the way hers did. There’s a faint tingle of sadness on this bracelet. Depression, perhaps. But that’s all.”

“What does that tell you?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.”

“No sense of violence?” Sam pressed.

“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you are taking my sensitivity seriously.”

“I’m taking your intuition seriously,” he said.

“Right. My intuition.”

She was not sure what to make of that.

“Did Dewhurst go out of her way to hide her bracelet?” Sam asked.

“No. She kept it with the rest of her jewelry. It wasn’t a dime-store trinket, but it wasn’t especially valuable, either, certainly not as expensive as most of her other jewelry. She never wore it.”

“How did she react when you informed her she ought to throw it away?”

“She didn’t argue or try to convince me that it was harmless. She said I might be right. The next morning when I arrived for work, we walked to the bluffs. She threw the bracelet into the ocean. A few days later she told me she was sleeping better than she had in a very long time.”

“What happened to the Astral Travelers Society? Does it still exist?”

“I don’t think so. Lillian didn’t go into the details but I got the impression most of the members of the Society were upper-class socialites who viewed the group as a form of fashionable entertainment. They soon lost interest and moved on to other social activities.”

“Yet Dewhurst kept the bracelet,” Sam said.

His eyes were cold and razor-sharp. The man was born to hunt bad guys, Maggie thought. Born to be a cop. It was sad that his career as a police detective had ended so abruptly.

“Are we going to tell Detective Brandon about this bracelet?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll telephone him in the morning. There’s not much he can do with the bracelet or the information that someone searched Nevins’s room tonight, but I’ve got a feeling he’ll ask me to continue to keep him informed.”

“In other words, he’s got his suspicions, so he’s decided to take advantage of your presence and professional expertise.” Maggie smiled. “You’re his undercover detective.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got a tendency to view everything from a very dramatic viewpoint?”

“A common character flaw in writers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She tried to switch to a more businesslike tone of voice. “Things are starting to happen, aren’t they? We need a plan.”

“We do,” Sam agreed. “At the moment all roads lead back to the Institute. I think it’s time to put a little pressure on the Guilfoyles.”

“Great idea. How do we do that?”

“No offense, but your enthusiasm makes me nervous.”

“Think of it as encouragement and support.”

Sam eyed her with deep suspicion. “You’re wondering how you can work this new development into the plot of your novel, aren’t you?”

“A writer is always open to inspiration.”

“I was afraid of that.” Sam got to his feet and went toward the connecting door. “The opening lecture at the Institute takes place at ten o’clock tomorrow. We want to be there early so that we can catch one or both of the Guilfoyles. I want to see their reaction when they find out the woman they hired to play Cornelia has left town.”

“Right,” Maggie said.

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got time for a few more hours of sleep. See you at breakfast? Eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be ready.”

She rose and trailed after him. Now that his business was over, he seemed in a great rush to leave her room. Just as well. She should not say another word. There was nothing more to be said, not tonight. She really should keep quiet.

“Sam?” she whispered.

He paused in the doorway, looking amused. “Are you going to tell me I should chuck a piece of furniture out the window before I try to sleep?”

“Some other time, maybe. I wanted to thank you for not panicking when you caught me in the middle of an anxiety attack tonight.”

“Takes a lot more than that to make me panic,” he growled in a tough-guy voice.

For some reason she suddenly felt much lighter. She was almost floating. She folded her arms. “Is that right? What, exactly, would it take to make you panic?”

“Finding myself in that novel you’re writing would do it.”

“Don’t worry, I always change the names to protect the innocent. And also to avoid getting sued for libel.”