Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(5)

The two floors above the ground floor had been designed to accommodate a large number of houseguests for a Hollywood mogul who had planned to entertain on a lavish scale.

An expansive view of the sparkling Pacific Ocean and easy access to a secluded beach completed the gracious scene.

Perfect, Amalie thought. Except for the stupid curse.

“The agent should have warned you about the history of this villa,” Hazel said. “If you had known that a famous Hollywood psychic jumped off the roof a few months ago, you would never have gone through with the purchase.”

“You’re wrong, Hazel.” Amalie took a sip of brandy and simultaneously put up a hand, palm out. “I would have bought it regardless. I couldn’t turn down such an incredible bargain.”

She had sunk the full amount of the small inheritance she had received in the wake of her parents’ deaths into the villa. She had to make the inn successful.

“The only reason the owner was willing to sell so cheap was because he knew full well he couldn’t get much for it, not after that psychic, Madam Zolanda, jumped off the roof,” Hazel said.

“In time, people will forget about the psychic who died here.”

“Maybe,” Hazel allowed. “But now that our first paying guest has been murdered by his own robot in front of a packed theater, we will never be able to attract customers.”

Amalie squared her shoulders. “We have no choice but to figure out how to turn a profit. We will find a way to make the Hidden Beach a premier place to stay in Burning Cove.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Not at the moment, but I’m sure something will come to me.” Amalie swallowed some more brandy and set the glass down. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go upstairs and take a look around Pickwell’s room.”

“It’s after midnight,” Hazel said. “We can pack up his things tomorrow. There’s no rush.”

“I think we can expect a visit from the police first thing in the morning,” Amalie said. “I want to examine the room before they show up.”

Hazel stared at her. “The police?”

“If Pickwell does not survive, his death will officially become a homicide.”

“Homicide by robot.” Hazel shuddered. “Gives a person the creeps, it does. It was like a scene out of a horror movie.”

Amalie thought about that for a beat. “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?”

“I will never forget what happened onstage tonight. I still can’t believe that machine murdered its inventor.”

“I find it hard to believe, too,” Amalie said.

She went behind the polished wooden bar that she and Hazel had decided to use as a front desk and opened the door to the small office that had once served as a coat closet. She took a key down off a brass hook.

“What do you expect to find?” Hazel asked.

“I have no idea.” Amalie crossed the lobby to the grand staircase. She paused, one hand on an ornate newel post, and looked back at Hazel. “But that scene onstage tonight has been bothering me.”

“I’m sure it bothered everyone.” Hazel narrowed her eyes. “What, in particular, has you worried? Besides the fact that we will probably be bankrupt within the month, I mean.”

“You said it yourself—the murder was like a scene out of a horror movie.”

Hazel had been about to pour herself some more brandy. She hesitated. “Meaning?”

“Movies are elaborate illusions designed to fool an audience. Maybe we should not believe everything we thought we saw onstage tonight.”

“Huh.” Hazel appeared intrigued. “Do you think Dr. Pickwell faked his own murder?”

Amalie thought about the grim expressions she had seen on the faces of Oliver Ward and Luther Pell. Then she remembered the stranger who had worn a shoulder holster under his evening jacket.

“I am almost positive that Pickwell was shot with real bullets tonight,” she said. “But I am not so sure that the robot is to blame.”

“How can you say that? We saw that thing shoot Pickwell.”

“Maybe we saw what we were meant to see. Think about it, Hazel. You and I both know how easy it is to fool an audience.”

“True. But that blood looked real.”

“I agree.”

Hazel pursed her lips. “Don’t you think it was strange that those two mob guys, Pell and his friend, were the first to rush down to the stage?”

“Oliver Ward and his wife headed for the stage, too.”

“Sure, but Irene Ward is a crime reporter. It makes sense that she would want the story and that her husband would want to keep an eye on her. There was no way to know if that robot would come back and shoot some more people. But why did Pell and that stranger get involved?”

“I have no idea,” Amalie said.

Hazel heaved a sigh and sank into one of the oversized chairs. She gazed morosely into the unlit fireplace.

“I suppose this means we’re going to get stiffed on the room rent,” she said. “Can’t collect from a dead man.”

“We don’t know for sure that Pickwell is dead,” Amalie said, trying to stay optimistic. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Take your time. It’s not like we’ve got a villa full of paying guests to look after.”