Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(34)

The night was cool but not cold. Matthias had decided to leave the top down on the Packard. The powerful convertible took the twists and turns of Cliff Road with the deceptive ease and precision of a big cat. Fog was coalescing out over the ocean but for now the moon was a silver disc in the night sky. And Amalie was in the seat beside him.

Too bad about the destination, he thought. Unfortunately they were not heading out for a night of cocktails, good food, dancing, and passion. That would have been Plan A. Instead they were going with Plan B—a visit to a sleazy nightclub during which they would attempt to interview a man who might have information that would lead to a cold-blooded killer.

He needed to rethink his priorities, Matthias decided.

“We’re probably wasting our time tonight, aren’t we?” Amalie said.

The question jolted him back to reality.

“We’ll know soon enough,” he said. “Pickwell was barely conscious when they loaded him into the ambulance. If he said anything at all, it was most likely incoherent. But I need to make sure I’m not overlooking any lead.”

“Because you don’t have anything else to go on?”

“Because of that, yes.”

Everything about the woman sitting beside him was mysterious, sultry, and just a little dangerous. Allowing her to accompany him tonight had probably not been the best idea he’d ever had but damn if it didn’t feel good to have her here with him.

Excitement and anticipation were heating his blood. It took him a while to comprehend exactly what he was feeling, because he had not experienced such sensations in a very long time. He finally realized that he was thrilled.

He had been half-aroused ever since he had watched Amalie float down the inn stairs to meet him a short time ago. She was dressed in a sleek little cocktail number in a deep shade of blue. The short cap sleeves framed the nice curves of her upper arms. The dress fit her snugly to the waist, emphasizing her slender figure and delicate breasts. The skirt flared out gently just below the knees, calling attention to her slim ankles with every step.

He had caught a whisper of her scent when he helped her adjust the wrap around her shoulders. For a few seconds he had been dazzled. It was as if he had downed a full glass of some very potent drink, except that his senses were not at all dulled. They were fully, exultantly alive.

He really did wish that they were on their way to anywhere but the Carousel.

He accelerated smoothly out of a curve, enjoying the purr of the finely tuned engine.

“Even if we don’t get anything from Seymour Webster,” he said, “talking to him could be useful in other ways.”

Amalie turned her head to look at him. “How is that?”

“It’s called stirring the pot,” he said. “Someone saw something. Someone knows something. Seymour Webster might not have anything useful for me, but talking to him at a place like the Carousel will get the word out that I’m willing to pay for information.”

“I guess that makes sense. Bit risky, though, isn’t it?”

“Which is why I tried to talk you out of coming with me.”

“I know. But I can’t just freeze on the platform and wait for someone to shove me over the edge.”

She hadn’t employed some random image, he thought. This was personal.

“Are you talking about Abbotsville?” he asked quietly.

“You know about that? Of course you do. You’re an investigator.”

“I know what was in the papers. I don’t know your version of events.”

She was quiet for so long he wasn’t sure she was going to respond. She did not owe him any answers, he thought. She had a right to her secrets. He was keeping a few of his own—the kind that sent most people, especially potential lovers, running for the exits.

“The police concluded that it was an accident,” she said finally. “A roustabout and a flyer got drunk and decided to play games on the trapeze. Harding used to be a catcher, you see.”

“The trapeze artist who catches the flyers?”

“Right. But I think something happened to him along the way. Maybe he lost his nerve or maybe he made flyers nervous. All I know is that he ended up out west working as a rigger, not a catcher. The Ramsey show hired him about a month before he tried to murder me. His work was good, so good that if he had succeeded in murdering me, everyone would have said my death was an accident or maybe suicide.”

“Suicide?”

“Flying can be . . . intoxicating,” Amalie said. “Exhilarating. There is nothing quite like it. You feel so free when you are up there, sailing through midair like a bird. They say that the sensation drives some artists to wonder what would happen if they just . . . let go.”

“What about the net?”

“A lot of artists refuse to use a net during a performance. The audience wants to be thrilled. The acts that sell tickets are those that don’t use a net.”

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Did you ever fly without a net?”

She smiled as if she found the question na?ve. “All the time. I was the star attraction of the Ramsey Circus, the last of the Fabulous Flying Vaughns.”

He told himself this was not the right moment for a stern lecture but it was hard to resist the impulse. He longed to pull over to the side of the road and shake her. What the hell do you think you were doing working without a net?