Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(29)

“Think of Pierce’s column as publicity.”

Amalie stabbed the paper a few times with her forefinger. “This kind of creepy publicity is not helpful.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Vincent said. He winked. “Take it from me, almost any kind of publicity is better than no publicity.”

Something in his tone gave her pause.

“Almost any kind?” she repeated.

“There is very little in the way of publicity that can kill a Hollywood career, Miss Vaughn. Most gossip simply adds fuel to the fire. But there are one or two lines that cannot be crossed, not if one hopes to survive in the industry.”

“Only one or two?”

“Indeed.” Vincent winked. “And I am happy to tell you that trivial things such as bizarre murders and a psychic’s curse from beyond the grave are not on that very short list. I think you will discover that my decision to choose your inn over so many other fine establishments here in Burning Cove will result in some excellent publicity for both of us. Think of us as a team, Miss Vaughn.”

Amalie eyed the copy of Hollywood Whispers.

“The press I’m getting at the moment couldn’t get much worse,” she said.

“Take it from someone who has been handling the press for years. The trick to surviving is to turn the bad news to your advantage. I can help you do that.”

It dawned on Amalie that, in spite of the freakish publicity storm that had struck the Hidden Beach Inn, she now had three paying guests—a probable mobster, a Hollywood actor known for his horror pictures, and said actor’s chauffeur. That was precisely three more guests than she’d had yesterday morning. If all of them paid their bills, she and Hazel just might make it through the month without having to dip into Madam Zolanda’s treasure chest.

She gave Vincent one of her showtime smiles.

“You have a point, Mr. Hyde. Things may be looking up for the Hidden Beach Inn, after all.”

“That’s the spirit, Miss Vaughn. Can I have my key now?”

“Yes, of course.” She opened the register to the very first page and handed Vincent a pen. “If you and Mr. Calloway would be good enough to sign in, I’ll get your keys and show you both to your rooms.”

Vincent took the pen and looked down at the register page. He chuckled.

“This is rather exciting, you know,” he said, scrawling his name.

Amalie ducked into the office to get the keys.

“How is that?” she asked through the partially open door.

“There are only two other names on this register, and one of them, that of Dr. Norman Pickwell, belongs to a man murdered by a robot.” Vincent put down the pen and looked up with a smile that would have done credit to Mad Doctor X. “Sends a little chill across the back of one’s neck, doesn’t it?”





Chapter 17


Amalie got Vincent and Jasper settled into rooms on the second floor and rushed back downstairs to unpack the groceries. It occurred to her that she was going to need more eggs, bread, and coffee. Grabbing a pad of paper and a pencil, she started to make out a second shopping list. Halfway through the task she glanced at the clock. Shock jolted through her when she realized she had only an hour and a half before the tea service. Hazel was in charge of the kitchen but Hazel was not available.

Amalie did a quick inventory and concluded that she could manage some small cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, but she despaired at the thought of getting a basket of freshly baked scones and a tray of shortbread on the table before the deadline.

You used to work under pressure all the time. Calm down and start baking.

She yanked an apron out of a drawer and took a large mixing bowl out of a cupboard.

She was cutting the butter into the flour for the scones and wondering if she could get away with omitting the shortbread cookies when she heard the doorbell ring.

Maybe Vincent Hyde was right; maybe the horrible publicity really was attracting business.

Hard on the heels of that thought came another. I’ll need more scones. More shortbread. What about the cheese? I don’t have enough tomatoes.

Hastily she wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron and rushed toward the front hall. She plastered what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face and opened the door.

She froze at the sight of the woman on the doorstep.

“Willa?” she finally managed. “What are you doing here?”

Blond, blue-eyed, and endowed with a delicate beauty that belied her wiry strength and agility, Willa Platt was a woman who usually aroused two equally powerful desires in men—they wanted to have sex with her and they yearned to be her knight in shining armor.

The last time Amalie had seen her, Willa had been sobbing inconsolably and screaming at her. You’re the reason Marcus is dead. He would be alive if it wasn’t for you. It was a harsh accusation made even more brutal by the fact that it was true.

“I need a job,” Willa said. “I’m desperate and I’m not too proud to beg. I know we’re not exactly friends anymore because of what happened in Abbotsville, but we’re both circus people. We take care of our own.”

“I don’t have a job to give you,” Amalie said. “I can’t afford to hire anyone yet. I’m having a few problems trying to get this place going.”

Willa nodded in understanding and surveyed the tiled hall and the arched entrance into the lobby.