The Other Lady Vanishes (Burning Cove #2)(12)

At the time, Thelma had been a secretary at one of the studios and a regular at the lunch counter where Zolanda worked. Thelma, too, had once had dreams of becoming a star, but working for an executive inside the business had given her a more realistic approach to life. It was Thelma who had observed that actors were a superstitious lot. They spent an amazing amount of money on palm readers, fortune-tellers, mystics, and psychics.

Thelma had pointed out the business potential over a turkey sandwich that Dorothy had just put in front of her on the counter. You’re a damn good actress, she’d said. You would just need to get into the role.

Exclusivity had been the key, of course. Celebrities did not patronize psychics who worked out of shabby storefront fortune-teller shops. Thelma had selected their first client, a neurotic actress who was easily persuaded that she needed career advice from a psychic. The initial consultation had been a huge success. Zolanda looked back on that first performance as a psychic advisor to the stars with pride. It had been nothing short of brilliant.

A week later the neurotic actress had requested another session. Within the month she had a handful of new clients. Thelma arranged for the consultations to take place in the privacy of the clients’ own homes.

Within two months Hollywood Whispers and Silver Screen Secrets had bestowed the title “Psychic to the Stars” on Madam Zolanda. Once the word got out that the stars were consulting Zolanda, everyone who was anyone in L.A. was calling for an appointment. Thelma was careful to keep the client list limited.

It took another few months for Zolanda and Thelma to realize that, as lucrative as the fashionable psychic business was, the real money was in collecting their clients’ secrets. Blackmail was an inherently dangerous pursuit, but it could be astonishingly profitable.

Some of the secrets were time sensitive and had to be cashed in immediately. Others would become more valuable in the future. She and Thelma had always referred to those secrets as their pension plan.

“Adelaide Brockton agreed to attend the performance tomorrow night,” Zolanda said, “but she was not exactly enthusiastic. I had to cough up an extra ticket and convince her to bring a friend.”

“So what? All we care about is that she shows up at the Palace Theater tomorrow night.”

“She’ll be there,” Zolanda said. “But we may have another problem.”

Thelma glanced into the rearview mirror again. “Truett?”

“He seems to have taken an interest in Adelaide.”

“It’s got to be a coincidence,” Thelma said.

But she looked uneasy.

“I don’t like the fact that he just happened to show up here in Burning Cove eight days ago,” Zolanda said.

“Where else does a rich businessman from L.A. go for some rest and relaxation? I’m telling you, his being here is sheer coincidence.”

Zolanda snorted softly. “A real psychic would tell you that there is no such thing as a coincidence.”

Thelma smiled. “But you aren’t a real psychic, are you? You’re just a damn good actress.”

Zolanda looked out the window. The morning fog had burned off. The golden light of the California sun flashed and sparkled on the Pacific. She thought about the day that she and her best friend had gotten off the train in Los Angeles with a couple of battered grips that contained all their worldly possessions.

Her dreams of stardom had kept her going for a time. She had worked the lunch-counter job and slept with too many sleazy bastards who claimed to be talent scouts or studio executives. But the guys had all been liars and cheats. She had never even managed to land a screen test. It was all so unfair because she possessed real talent.

Her best friend, however, had gotten lucky. In Hollywood, a woman’s face was her fortune, and Vera Westlake had a face the camera and the audience loved.

Zolanda tightened one hand into a fist. The rage welled up deep inside, as hot as ever. She did not try to suppress it. She savored it. The anger gave her strength. But she was very careful to keep her jealousy concealed behind the mask of Madam Zolanda, psychic to the stars.

She might not be the most beautiful woman in Hollywood, but she was a very talented actress. Tomorrow night she would prove it.

She realized that Thelma was watching her in the rearview mirror again. There was no way she could know what was scheduled to happen tomorrow night. No possible way.

But one thing had become clear. Thelma would be a problem in the very near future. She knew too much, not just about the value of the secrets they had collected, but also about the past. Thelma knew everything. It was time for her to quietly disappear.





Chapter 7


The dream opened the way it often did . . .

She was walking through the deceptively serene gardens of the Rushbrook Sanitarium. She wore a hospital gown. The Duchess was with her, dressed in a style that had gone out of fashion for wealthy, well-bred ladies three decades earlier. The long skirts of her pale pink tea gown brushed the graveled path.

They spoke in low tones because the Duchess worried that the servants might be listening. Adelaide knew that was a very real possibility.

“I’ve told you before, dear, you should not return to this place,” the Duchess said. “You’re not like me. You don’t belong here.”

“I don’t want to return,” Adelaide said, “but I left something behind.”