“That would be wonderful,” she managed weakly. “But I’m sure the performance will be sold out—”
“Of course it will be sold out,” Zolanda said. She waved one hand in a grand gesture that set the bangles on her arms clashing. “I always play to a full house. But that does not mean that I don’t save a few special seats for special people. There will be a ticket waiting for you at the box office tomorrow night. Remember, the show starts at seven thirty sharp.”
“That’s very kind of you but I expect tomorrow will be a very busy day here at the tearoom. I’ll probably be too tired to go out.”
“Bring a friend.” Zolanda made another sweeping gesture. “There will be two tickets waiting at the box office. Surely you know someone who might be thrilled to attend the performance with you?”
Another hush had fallen over the tearoom. Adelaide realized that this time she was the center of attention. Everyone, including Jake, was waiting to see if she would take the generous offer. There was no graceful way out.
“Thank you,” she said in low tones. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“Excellent,” Zolanda said, delighted. “I’m so glad. I sense that my connection to the spirit world will be especially strong tomorrow night. The moon is almost full, you know. A full or nearly full moon always enhances the experience.”
“Really?” Adelaide said, somewhat weakly. “How interesting.”
The Rushbrook Sanitarium staff had maintained that the patients got crazier than usual on nights when the moon was full. There had been a full moon the night she escaped.
“I hope you and your lucky friend enjoy the performance,” Zolanda said.
Adelaide went back across the room. Florence bobbed her eyebrows again.
“Who are you going to take with you?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to think about it. Do you want to come?”
“Nope. You should ask Truett.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I am not kidding. Ask him.”
“I’m sure he’s got better things to do than watch a fake psychic pretend to commune with the spirit world,” Adelaide whispered.
“No,” Jake said quietly behind her. “I don’t have anything better to do.”
Startled, Adelaide whipped around. Jake was lounging against the counter looking like a man who was waiting to pay his bill. Adelaide glared at him.
“You must be really bored if you want to attend Madam Zolanda’s show with me,” she said, careful to keep her voice to a near whisper.
“I was planning to invite you to go to the art museum with me, but Zolanda’s show sounds more interesting.”
Florence beamed approvingly. “I’m sure it will be a lot more entertaining.”
What the heck, Adelaide thought. According to Florence, Jake Truett would only be around for a few weeks, if that long. He had made it clear that he was already bored. When he’d had enough of resting his nerves by the seaside, he would head back to Los Angeles. She would never see him again. There was no risk of a long-term relationship. No risk that he would ask too many questions that she would have trouble answering. All in all, he was the ideal date.
Besides, she was tired of spending most of her evenings alone.
She fixed Jake with a level look. “All right, Mr. Truett. You can have my second ticket to the show tomorrow evening. I’ll meet you at the box office.”
“It’s Jake, remember? And there’s no need to take two cars,” Jake said. “I’ll pick you up.”
She hesitated but couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to refuse. Her car was a used Ford that was quite capable of breaking down and leaving her stranded by the side of the road.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll be ready by seven. Now, will you kindly return to your table before people start to wonder what is going on?”
“Good idea,” he said. He smiled politely but there was a calculating gleam in his eyes. “I could use that cup of tea I ordered. I think my nerves are exhibiting unmistakable signs of overstimulation.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen,” Adelaide shot back.
“Of course not. No telling where it might lead.”
He turned, moving with his usual prowling grace, and made his way back to his table.
Florence looked at Adelaide. “His nerves are overstimulated? What was he talking about?”
“I have no idea, and you can bet I’m not going to ask him. Call me psychic, but something tells me I wouldn’t like the answer.”
Chapter 6
“Well?” Thelma asked as she fired up the Packard’s heavy engine. “Did she take the bait?”
Zolanda, ensconced on the elegantly tufted leather seat, met Thelma’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They had been a team for three years. Their partnership had been formed when she was still Dorothy Higgins, an aspiring actress who had never managed to land a role. She knew that she had the talent and she was pretty enough, but she lacked the magical quality that transformed an actress like Vera Westlake into a radiant beauty on the silver screen.
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.”