“Often enough to be annoying.”
“Where did you work when you were in the police?” she asked.
“Started in Seattle. A couple of years ago I moved to L.A.”
That jolted her. “You were a police detective in Los Angeles?”
“For a while.”
Her spirits sank. “I see.”
He eyed her warily. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no, of course not.”
His jaw tightened. “There’s a problem. What is it?”
“I don’t want to insult you—”
“Go ahead, I’m used to it.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s just that the Los Angeles Police Department is rumored to be in the pockets of the studios and the tycoons who run the city.”
“I no longer work in L.A. I was fired.”
It was her turn to watch him closely. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
“I arrested the wrong man.” He tapped the letter. “Let’s return to your case. I assume you did not contact the Adelina Beach police about the blackmail threat?”
“Absolutely not. That letter practically accuses Aunt Cornelia of murder. My employer’s career and her reputation would be ruined if it got out that she was in any way linked to a homicide.”
“Have you considered the possibility that your employer might have been involved in the death of the Jennaway woman?” Sam asked.
“No. I’m sure Miss Dewhurst did not murder anyone.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Intuition. I’ve worked for her for over two months now. My office is in her house. I’ve spent a great deal of time with her. There is nothing about Lillian Dewhurst that would make me suspect she’s capable of murder. Read the letter, Mr. Sage. Please. There’s a newspaper clipping enclosed.”
He extracted the note from the envelope and unfolded it. The clipping fluttered onto the blotter.
He read the letter aloud without inflection:
Dear Aunt Cornelia:
Those who believe that murder by dreams leaves no evidence are wrong. The price of silence is a thousand dollars. Purchase a ticket to the opening conference of the Guilfoyle Institute in Burning Cove and bring the money in cash. You will receive further instructions after you arrive.
Yours in nightmares,
The Traveler
“I see the blackmailer has a taste for melodrama,” Sam said. He put down the letter and picked up the yellowed newspaper clipping. His tone turned thoughtful as he read.
Keeley Point—Early this morning the body of Miss Virginia Jennaway was found washed ashore not far from her cottage. A lawyer for the family reported that Miss Jennaway evidently decided to take a moonlight stroll on the beach and was overtaken by a rogue wave that carried her out to sea, where she drowned. The family is devastated and has requested privacy.
Sam set the clipping aside and looked at Maggie. She held her breath. If he turned down her case she would have no choice but to try her luck with the Los Angeles phone book.
“The article is dated four years ago,” he said. “Does the name Virginia Jennaway mean anything to you?”
“No,” she said.
“Does the Traveler signature ring any bells?”
She hesitated, reluctant to open that particular door. But it had already been left ajar by the extortionist. Sooner or later Sam Sage would have to be told about the Traveler. Might as well get the conversation over with.
“There’s an old legend concerning a disembodied spirit called the Traveler that exists on the astral plane,” she said. “A sort of psychic assassin. He murders people in their dreams by means of astral projection.”
“I see,” Sam said, his tone too neutral now. “Do you believe in that astral projection stuff?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “Whoever wrote the note was obviously trying to sound ominous.”
“Know anything about the Guilfoyle Institute?”
She took a breath and tried for an academic tone. “As you no doubt are aware, dreams are a subject of great interest to the medical and scientific community. Many respected authorities, such as Freud and Jung, are convinced that dream analysis is a useful form of therapy. A great many doctors and researchers are doing groundbreaking research in the field.”
“So?”
“In the past year a man named Arthur Guilfoyle has drawn some attention for his approach to lucid dreaming.”
Sage reflected briefly. “That’s when you dream but you know you’re dreaming, right?”
“Yes.” She told herself it was a good sign that he at least knew the basic definition of lucid dreaming. She dropped the academic air. “About a year ago, Guilfoyle acquired an old celebrity estate on the outskirts of Burning Cove. It was built by Carson Flint back in the late twenties. It is apparently quite impressive.”
“Carson Flint, the Hollywood producer?”
“Right. He died about a year and a half ago. Guilfoyle owns the estate now. He has converted it into a research center named the Guilfoyle Institute. The grand opening of the Institute will be in the form of a three-day conference that starts the day after tomorrow.”
“Was Lillian Dewhurst planning to attend?”
“We talked about it when we first noticed the ads in the paper several weeks ago,” Maggie said, choosing her words with care. “Miss Dewhurst and I share a great interest in the scientific study of dreams. But in the end we both decided not to attend the conference.”
Sam glanced at the letter again. “The blackmailer wants Dewhurst to show up at the event.”
“Yes.”
“Why make the extortion payoff during the conference?
Maggie gave him a cool smile. “That’s what I intend to pay you to find out, assuming you take my case.”
“Anything else you want to tell me about this note or your boss?”
“No—at least, I don’t think so.” She paused. “How much more information do you need?”
“I won’t know until I start looking around.”
Relief splashed through her. “You’ll take the case?”
“I’ll make some phone calls and see what I can find out about the death of Miss Jennaway. We’ll talk about the next step after that.”
She had hoped for a little more professional enthusiasm, but it was clear the promise to make the phone calls was all she was going to get, at least for now.
“I suppose that’s a start,” she said. She opened her handbag and took out her wallet. “You’ll be requiring a retainer, of course.”
“It’s customary. I charge by the day. Expenses are extra.”
“I understand. How much is the retainer?”
He told her. She took out the money and leaned over the desk to hand it to him.
He accepted the cash, politely not counting the bills, and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. She caught the dull metallic sheen of a pistol just before he dropped the money inside and closed and locked the drawer.
For some reason the sight of the gun sent a frisson of uncertainty down her spine. She had just hired a man who kept a pistol in his desk drawer. She told herself it was only to be expected. He was a private detective, after all. She was asking him to deal with a blackmailer. She needed someone who could be intimidating if necessary. Sam Sage might not be a prosperous investigator, but she thought he could appear quite dangerous if he bothered to make the effort.
Still, she had never known anyone who kept a pistol in his desk. Yes, her father and brothers occasionally did some hunting, but that was different. There was only one reason a person needed a handgun, and that reason was chilling. Maybe she was making a serious mistake.
Sam did not appear to be aware of her misgivings. “You don’t mind using your own money to find out who is blackmailing your employer?”
“My duties as Miss Dewhurst’s assistant include paying the household bills while she’s away,” Maggie said. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sage, I am authorized to write checks on her account. Miss Dewhurst is a wealthy woman.”
“She obviously trusts you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”