She picks up the postcard and turns it over to see the picture.
There is an illustration of a charming Mediterranean-style town on the front. Whitewashed buildings topped with red tile roofs line palm-shaded streets. The ocean sparkles in the sun. The scene is almost too perfect to be real, a movie-set town.
There are words written across the picture postcard. She can read them clearly.
welcome to burning cove, california
She sees the shadow that hangs over the town. Anxiety unfurls its dark wings. She knows she needs to end the dream. Now.
She drops the postcard on the floor and hurries toward the door, her exit from the dreamscape. But just before she steps into the safety of the hallway, she senses motion in the room.
This is not part of the script.
She turns and sees Emerson Oxlade lunging toward her, a syringe in one hand.
“You belong to me,” he says.
Panic sweeps through her. She is losing control of the dreamscape. She runs for the door. It is like trying to move through quicksand . . .
She yanked herself out of the dream, opened her eyes, and sat up on the edge of the bed. Her pulse was beating too quickly, and she could not seem to take a deep breath.
“Breathe,” she whispered into the darkness. “Your nerves are fine. You know how to breathe. Just breathe.”
After a few minutes she grew calm. When she was satisfied she had her nerves under control, she switched on the lamp and reached for the dream journal on the nightstand. She wrote down what felt like the important elements of the dream before they could slide away; before she could convince herself she was imagining things.
When she was finished she studied her notes. Her intuition was telling her that the answers she sought were in Burning Cove and that she needed Sam Sage to find them, but she already knew that.
All in all, not one of her more useful dream journeys.
Chapter 7
The phone on Sam’s desk rang at five minutes after eight o’clock the following morning.
“I have a collect call for Mr. Sage from Detective Flynn of the Keeley Point Police Department,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”
Sam winced and then reminded himself he would be putting the cost of the collect call on his bill.
“Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” he said.
“Go ahead, Detective Flynn,” the operator said.
“Sage? This is Flynn. I got your message when I walked into the office a few minutes ago. Why are you looking into the Jennaway drowning?”
Sam got the familiar whisper of certainty that told him he was on the right track. The fact that Flynn had phoned as soon as he received the message answered the key question. A homicide cop a hundred miles away had better things to do than return a call to a private investigator—a stranger—unless the detective had a few questions of his own about the death.
“I’ve got a case of blackmail here in Adelina Beach that appears to be tied to Miss Jennaway’s death,” he said.
“The name Sage sounds familiar. Are you the cop who arrested Chichester for the Bloody Scarf Murders a while back?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“What do you want to know about Jennaway?”
* * *
Sam hung up a few minutes later and studied his notes. He was reaching for the receiver when the phone rang again. Two phone calls before eight thirty in the morning. Business was picking up at Sage Investigations. He could think of only one person besides the Keeley Point detective who would be calling at that hour. He got a pleasant little jolt of anticipation when he picked up the receiver.
“Sage Investigations,” he said.
“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
Right caller, but Margaret Lodge was not in a good mood. She was furious.
“Miss Lodge?” he said, trying to play it cautiously.
“Yes, of course it’s me. Who else would be calling you at this hour?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“By the way, as we’re going to be working together, you might as well call me Maggie. Did you read the Adelina Beach Courier this morning?”
He glanced at the paper on his desk. “Not yet. Why? Is there—”
“Open it. Turn to the Celebrity Confidential column. Hurry.”
He braced the phone between his shoulder and his right ear and reached for the paper.
“Where is the Celebrity Confidential column?” he asked.
“Bottom half of the Society page.”
Impatience sharpened her voice. He decided not to ask for further instructions. He had a feeling she had already concluded he was not Sam Spade or Nick Charles.
He found the Society page, located the column beneath the fold, and read it aloud:
What famous advice columnist was seen drinking an endless stream of Manhattans at the Paradise Club in Burning Cove, that vacation destination of the rich, famous, and shady? None other than the notoriously reclusive Aunt Cornelia. Yes, that Aunt Cornelia, the one who appears six days a week in newspapers across the country.
Who would have guessed the trusted adviser to thousands is not the prim and proper matron of our imaginations but rather a glamorous redhead with a wardrobe any Hollywood actress would cheerfully kill for?
We’re told Aunt Cornelia is in town to attend the opening conference at the new Guilfoyle Institute. Perhaps she hopes to learn how to use her dreams as a resource for advice she can pass along to her faithful readers.
He put the paper down on the desk. “I’m assuming you did not know your employer was in Burning Cove.”
“Lillian most definitely is not in Burning Cove.” Maggie’s voice was tight with outrage. “I told you, she is on an extended voyage in the South Pacific. Also, she is not a redhead, and she drinks martinis, not Manhattans. She does not go out to hot nightclubs. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Mr. Sage?”
“Sam,” he said automatically.
“What?”
“If I’m supposed to call you Margaret, you had better call me Sam.”
“Maggie, not Margaret. My ex-fiancé called me Margaret. You do not want to remind me of him.”
“Okay. Right.” The conversation had lurched violently off topic. Sam forced himself to focus on the case. “I understand you think someone is pretending to be Aunt Cornelia.”
“It’s quite obvious a fraud has discovered the real Aunt Cornelia is out of the country and is now impersonating her in Burning Cove.”
“Why?” he asked, grasping at a frail strand of logic that appeared to be dangling in midair.
“I have no idea,” Maggie said. “But we have to do something about this immediately.”
It was the we have to do something that alarmed him.
“Don’t worry,” he said, trying to sound professional and reassuring. “If you’re prepared to pay for a trip to Burning Cove, I’ll drive there and talk to the woman who is claiming to be Aunt Cornelia. But maybe you’d like to hear my report on the death of Virginia Jennaway first?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I was so shocked by the Celebrity Confidential piece about Aunt Cornelia I almost forgot the Jennaway situation. What did you find out?”
“I just got off the phone with a detective who works homicide in Keeley Point. He said Jennaway’s death was ruled accidental but afterward there were rumors.”
“Of what?”
“Evidently Virginia Jennaway ran with a fast crowd of bored socialites. They were rumored to use drugs. A relative found the body washed up on the beach one morning. The gossip was that Jennaway most likely died of an overdose and the family covered it up.”
“And now, four years later, someone blames Aunt Cornelia for the tragedy?”
“No, someone is looking to make a profit. Blackmail is about money, not justice or revenge.” Sam paused, thinking. “Does Lillian Dewhurst have any connection to Keeley Point?”