Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(10)

She had a point.

“I want your word that you’ll call me immediately if someone else shows up asking questions about Pickwell or trying to claim his belongings,” he said.

Amalie gave a small, delicate shrug. “I told you, I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it?”

“You are not the only one who has a serious problem here. You don’t seem to appreciate the potential disaster that my aunt and I are now confronting.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got this villa in a very sweet deal,” Amalie said. “We found out later that the previous owner dumped it onto the market at a bargain-basement price because a rather bizarre event occurred here recently. A famous Hollywood psychic jumped off the roof after predicting death during her performance at the Palace. That would be the very same theater where Pickwell was murdered tonight.”

He frowned. “You’re talking about Madam Zolanda, the Hollywood celebrity they called ‘the psychic to the stars’?”

“Yes. And now another, even stranger death has occurred, and the victim just happens to be our very first guest here at the Hidden Beach Inn, the very same villa where Madam Zolanda was staying when she jumped off the roof.”

He finally understood her problem.

“Coincidence,” he said.

Now he was the one who was lying. He did not believe in coincidences, but that just made the situation all the more confounding. What the hell was going on here in Burning Cove?

Amalie eyed him with a knowing look. “You’re not really buying the coincidence angle, are you?”

“Miss Vaughn, I can assure you—”

“Oh, shut up. You can stand there and assure me all night but after the headlines on the front page of the Burning Cove Herald in the morning, I doubt very much that anyone will be talking about coincidence. People will be discussing a dead psychic’s curse over breakfast.”

“Fake psychic,” he said automatically.

“Is that right? And just how would you know Zolanda was a fraud?”

He shrugged. “I come from a long line of psychics. I’m pretty sure Zolanda was a fake.”

Amalie stared at him, clearly dumbfounded.

“What?” she finally managed.

He tried once again to think of something reassuring to say. Words failed.

“Never mind,” he said instead.

“Never mind? You just told me that you came from a long line of fake psychics. How am I supposed to ignore that?”

“I never said they were fake psychics.”

“Do you really believe that there is such a thing as psychic power?”

“What I believe,” he said with careful precision, “is that there is such a thing as intuition, and right now my intuition is telling me that we have more important things to deal with.”

“You can say that again. By noon tomorrow, everyone in town will probably be calling my beautiful inn ‘Murder Mansion’ or ‘Death Trap Hall.’”

He smiled faintly. “Sounds like the title of a horror movie.”

“Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

“No, Mr. Jones, I’m being realistic. What’s more, the gossip won’t stop at the edge of town. Given the public’s fascination with robots, the story that Pickwell was murdered by his own invention will go national. Exactly how do you think that kind of publicity will affect my business?”

There was not much he could say. She was right. The headlines would probably have a negative effect on bookings, at least for a while. Not that the place appeared to be doing much business anyway.

“The stories will blow over,” he said, once again going for a reassuring lie.

“How much time do you think it will take for people to forget? Six months? A year? I don’t have more than a couple of months, at the most. Every nickel I have is invested in this inn. I might be able to sell some of the furnishings and a few of the things that Zolanda left behind but that will only keep me going for a little while. Sooner or later I’ll have to sell this place. I won’t get anywhere near what I paid for it.”

“We’ll figure out something,” Matthias said.

“‘We’? You are not going to figure out anything, Mr. Jones. You’re too busy chasing your very important lead, remember? I’m the owner of the Hidden Beach and I’m the one who will have to find a way to keep my business open.”

“I’ll talk to Luther Pell. I’m sure he can arrange to send some business your way.”

“Mob business? No, thank you. I don’t think that will do the inn’s reputation any good, do you?”

“Business is business.”

“Pay attention, Mr. Jones. You will not discuss my personal financial affairs with Luther Pell. Is that clear?”

“All right, take it easy. For now, just give me your word that you’ll call if anyone comes around asking about Pickwell or his things.”

She tapped the card with the phone number on it against the palm of her hand. “Whether or not I make that call will depend.”

“On what?”

“On whether I get more helpful answers from the person or persons who show up inquiring about my deceased guest.”