Jayne Ann Krentz is the critically-acclaimed creator of the Arcane Society world, Dark Legacy series and Rainshadow series. She also writes as Amanda Quick and Jayne Castle. Jayne has written more than fifty New York Times bestsellers under various pseudonyms and lives in the Pacific Northwest.

The historical novels she writes as Amanda Quick all feature her customary irresistible mix of passion and mystery, and also have a strong psychic/paranormal twist.

Visit her online:

www.jayneannkrentz.com

www.facebook.com/JayneAnnKrentz

@JayneAnnKrentz

The Fogg Lake Trilogy:

By Jayne Ann Krentz

The Vanishing

All the Colours of Night

Lightning in a Mirror

Cutler, Sutter & Salinas Novels:

By Jayne Ann Krentz

When All the Girls Have Gone
Promise Not To Tell

Untouchable

Burning Cove Novels:

Writing as Amanda Quick

The Girl Who Knew Too Much
The Other Lady Vanishes

Tightrope

Close Up

The Lady Has a Past
When She Dreams

Arcane Society Novels:

Writing as Jayne Ann Krentz,
Amanda Quick & Jayne Castle
Second Sight

White Lies
Sizzle and Burn
The Third Circle
Running Hot
The Perfect Poison

Fired Up
Burning Lamp
Midnight Crystal
In Too Deep

Quicksilver

Harmony (Ghost Hunters) Novels:

Writing as Jayne Castle
After Dark*
After Glow*
Ghost Hunter*

Silver Master*
Dark Light
Obsidian Prey
Midnight Crystal
Canyons of Night

The Lost Night
Deception Cove
The Hot Zone

Siren’s Call
Illusion Town
Guild Boss

Ladies of Lantern Street Novels:

Writing as Amanda Quick
Crystal Gardens
The Mystery Woman

Dark Legacy Novels:

By Jayne Ann Krentz
Copper Beach

Dream Eyes

Whispering Springs Novels:

By Jayne Ann Krentz
Light in Shadow

Truth or Dare

Vanza Novels:

Writing as Amanda Quick
With This Ring

I Thee Wed
Wicked Widow
Lie By Moonlight

Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz
writing as Amanda Quick:
The Paid Companion

Wait Until Midnight
The River Knows

Affair
Mischief
Slightly Shady
Otherwise Engaged
Garden of Lies
’Til Death do Us Part

Other titles by Jayne Ann Krentz:

Falling Awake
All Night Long
River Road
Trust No One

Secret Sisters

* Not published by Piatkus

PIATKUS

First published in the US in 2022 by Berkley,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by Piatkus

Copyright © 2022 by Jayne Ann Krentz

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without
the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-43227-4

Piatkus

An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.littlebrown.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

For Frank, as always, with love

Chapter 1

You poisoned me.”

The words tumbled out in a slurred mumble, not the scream of rage Maggie Lodge intended. The drug had plunged her into a waking nightmare. The office of Dr. Emerson Oxlade, Dream Analyst, was starting to revolve. Bits and pieces of the walls and ceiling were becoming transparent.

“Calm yourself, Miss Smith.” Oxlade spoke in stern, authoritative tones. “Remember, you have extremely delicate nerves and are therefore inclined toward hysteria. It is why you came to me for therapy. I am attempting to help you.”

Oxlade knew her as Miss Smith because she had booked the consultation under that name. It was her long-standing habit to use a false identity when she made appointments with experts in the field of dream analysis. She had initiated the practice after she had been released from Sweet Creek Manor Psychiatric Hospital, and it had served her well. The proof of its effectiveness was that she had not resided in another asylum since leaving Sweet Creek.

“I did not come here for therapy,” she said. “I distinctly told the receptionist that I was booking a consultation. There is nothing wrong with my nerves. I am not hysterical, damn it. I’m furious.”

But she knew she probably sounded as if she were on the edge of hysteria. She should have heeded the warning she got last week when she walked into the office for the first time. The space was drenched in invisible shadows.

She had told herself the bad energy had been left behind by some of the troubled people who had come to Oxlade for help with their nightmares. Now she wondered how much of the dark stuff had been laid down by Oxlade himself.

It wasn’t the first time she had wandered into a pool of energy that was so murky it was impossible to distinguish the source. But if she made it a rule not to go into any space that reeked of other people’s nightmares, she would become housebound. Her sensitivity had already done enough damage to her personal life. She would not allow it to turn her into an agoraphobe.

“I assure you that you have not been poisoned,” Oxlade huffed. “My enhancer has some side effects, but most people find them enjoyable, even exhilarating, provided they have someone to guide them through the experience. That is why I am here. I will show you how to make the most of your talent for lucid dreaming. Together we will achieve great things.”

“Bastard.”

“I gave you a very light dose this first time. I’ve never used it on anyone with your powerful dream talent. Didn’t want to overdo it. In a few minutes you will be deep in a waking dreamstate. The enhancer has hypnotic effects. It will cause you to become extremely suggestible. That will allow me to take control of your experience.”

“Stop it,” she said, trying to fight off the terrifying sensation that her mind was starting to separate from her body. “You drugged me, you fraud. You’re no better than the others.”

Screaming for help would have to wait. She had to focus on overcoming the visions, and at the moment she could not do two things at the same time. Her priorities were clear: Escape first. Scream later. The inevitable nightmares would no doubt follow, but she could handle bad dreams. She was an expert.

She gazed up at the disappearing ceiling, groping for a strategy.

“Do not fight the effects,” Oxlade said. “It will make the process more difficult. Remain calm.”

“Shut up.”

“You will learn to embrace my enhancer, Miss Smith. I will guide you.”

He was still speaking in the clinical manner of a doctor who knows what is best for a patient, but now she detected a disturbing element infused into the words. Lust. Not the sexual kind. Some sort of sick desire.

Should have picked up on that unpleasant little quirk sooner, she thought.

But the first consultation had seemed to go well in spite of the energy in the office. Oxlade was the latest in the long line of doctors, therapists, quacks, and con artists she had encountered in the past few years, but he was the one with the most respected reputation. He wrote papers for scientific and medical journals. He gave guest lectures at distinguished academic institutions.

After the first consultation, Oxlade had been eager to have her book a series of appointments with him. Now she knew why he had been so enthusiastic. He was obsessed with her—not with her as a woman but with her talent for lucid dreaming.

It was not the first time she had found herself in such a situation, but none of the other so-called experts had attempted to drug her. Oxlade had slipped past her usually sharp defenses.

The walls and floor were almost invisible now. Oxlade’s desk and the bookshelves crammed with weighty volumes and academic journals drifted around her in midair.

“Just another few minutes, Miss Smith, and we will be ready to begin our journey through your astonishing dreams,” Oxlade said.

She realized she could hear him but she could no longer see him. That was not good. Cautiously she turned her head on the cushion, searching for her tormentor.

Oxlade floated into view. He was ensconced in his big leather chair, tailored trousers artfully hitched up over his crossed knees, pipe wedged in the corner of his mouth, notebook at the ready. The gold signet ring on his little finger sparked ominously. Behind the lenses of his spectacles his pale eyes glittered with a sheen of unwholesome excitement. The eyes of a reptile.

His head began to change shape. It grew longer, snakelike. His pipe was now a thin, forked tongue.

She knew she was letting the hallucinations gain control. She could not allow that to happen. This was a nightmare. She knew how to handle bad dreams.

You need a plan.

She had to move if she wanted to escape, but the revolving room was disorienting. It affected her sense of balance. Nothing seemed solid or substantial, not even the couch she reclined on.

The couch.

Getting off the couch was clearly a crucial first step. Thinking logically wasn’t her strong suit at the moment, but she was suddenly very certain she could not get out of the office if she did not get off the damned couch.

The room was badly warped. Everything was wrong, but she knew how it was supposed to look. Oxlade tossed you into the deep end of a dream.

She pulled hard on her self-control, forcing the hallucinations to recede. The furniture settled back on the floor. The walls and ceiling grew solid. She took a deep breath and struggled to a sitting position.

Oxlade was annoyed. He leaned forward, his viper eyes glinting. “Lie down, Miss Smith. You will get dizzy if you try to stand.”

With another fierce effort of will she succeeded in swinging her legs over the side of the couch. She was profoundly grateful she had worn trousers to the appointment. Not that the choice of attire was simply a stroke of good luck. Countless hours spent in the offices of dream analysts, psychiatrists, and therapists had taught her there was usually a couch involved. She had also discovered that some practitioners were not above trying to seduce their clients on said couches. It was easier to deal with such situations when one was wearing trousers.

When the soles of her T-strap sandals hit the floor she planted her hands on the cushion on either side of her hips and pushed herself to her feet.

For a few seconds she wavered, terrified she would lose her balance.

Oxlade dropped his notebook, jerked the pipe out of his mouth, and shot to his feet. “Miss Smith, I insist you sit down immediately.”

She ignored him to focus on the door. Getting through it was step two in the plan.

She tried to walk toward the door and discovered she could not move because Oxlade had grabbed her arm.

“Take your hand off me,” she said. It was gratifying to discover she was no longer slurring her words. Her voice sounded stronger, too. She was gaining control over the waking nightmare.

Oxlade tightened his grip. His eyes glittered. “You can’t leave. Don’t you understand? Everything depends on you.”

She tried to pull free and lunge for the door.

Oxlade yanked her back. “You can’t walk out on me, you silly woman. I need you.”

She swept out her free hand and grabbed the nearest heavy object, a glass ashtray. She swung it awkwardly at Oxlade’s head. He yelped, released her arm, and scrambled backward, barely escaping the blow.

“You must calm down, Miss Smith,” Oxlade gasped. “You are suffering a fit of hysteria.”

She started toward the door again, but halfway across the room she remembered her handbag. She could not leave it behind. Not only was there a little money inside, but there was some identification in her real name.

She changed course and swiped the bag off the console. When she realized Oxlade had not made another grab for her arm, she glanced back over her shoulder. She was just in time to see him reach into a desk tray and seize a syringe. He rushed toward her.

“You leave me no choice,” he said. “I must sedate you. Don’t worry; I will make sure you get the help you need.”

The chilling words came straight from the heart of some of her worst nightmares, the ones that harkened back to her time at Sweet Creek Manor. Another wave of panic washed over her. It would take her a few precious seconds to get the door open. She did not have those few seconds.

Oxlade closed the space between them. He held the syringe as though it were a stiletto.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, Miss Smith, but it’s for your own good.”

More words from a nightmare.

She dropped the handbag and picked up the large ceramic vase sitting on the console. Filled with water and an impressive bouquet, it was almost too heavy to lift, but desperation gave her strength. She used both hands to heave it at Oxlade.

He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The vase struck him in the middle of the chest. He grunted, dropped the syringe, and staggered backward. Water and flowers cascaded over him, soaking his elegantly tailored suit, shirt, and tie.

The back of his knee came up against the edge of the couch. He collapsed onto the cushions.

“You are hysterical,” he gasped. “You don’t know what you are doing, what we could achieve together. I forbid you to leave this room.”

She seized the strap of her purse, got the door open, and stumbled into the small waiting area.

The flinty-eyed receptionist was on her feet, transfixed with shock. A middle-aged woman sat, frozen, in the waiting room, a copy of Reader’s Digest clutched in her gloved hands.

Maggie heard the door of the inner office slam shut behind her. Afraid Oxlade was pursuing her, she spun around—and nearly lost her balance.

Relief flooded through her when she saw that Oxlade had sealed himself inside his office. There was an audible click when he locked the door.

She took a deep breath, slung the strap of the handbag over one shoulder, and opened the door of the small waiting room. She was about to rush out into the hall, but she paused long enough to look back at the stunned woman holding the magazine.

“Take my advice,” Maggie said. “Find another dream therapist.”

She did not wait for a response. She escaped into the hall, slamming the door behind her. Bracing one palm against the wall to steady herself, she made her way cautiously toward the stairs.

She wondered if the frozen woman would take her advice. Doubtful. People rarely took good advice. She was an excellent example of that particular character flaw. She had lost count of the number of times she had told herself to give up on the search for a dream analyst who could help her learn how to gain better control, yet here she was, fleeing another disastrous encounter.

Emerson Oxlade could have stepped straight out of a horror film—Doctor X, perhaps, or Mad Love with Peter Lorre.

Fortunately, he didn’t know her real name.

Chapter 2

Adelina Beach

Five months later . . .

Maggie did her best to ignore the coatrack, but that proved impossible. It loomed in the corner of the office of Sage Investigations, casting an invisible shadow over the cramped, sparsely furnished room. A fedora dangled on one brass hook. A well-worn trench coat was draped over another.

Neither the hat nor the coat was the source of the bad energy in the room. No question about it—the coatrack was the problem. It did not belong in the office. It was wrong.

She told herself the coatrack was none of her business and tried to focus on the reason she was sitting in the office of a private investigator—the third one that day—at ten thirty in the morning.

“Someone is attempting to blackmail my employer,” she said. “I want you to find the individual and put a stop to the extortion threat.”

Sam Sage leaned forward and folded his arms on the desk. He was not what she had expected. He certainly looked the part. He had the resolute and rather intimidating features and the cold, nothing-can-surprise-me eyes of a man who has shed whatever illusions he might once have had about the world, but there was more to Sam Sage. She was not sure how much more, but the realization that there were hidden depths was vaguely reassuring. She needed a detective who could be counted on to keep secrets.

In spite of his stony, seen-it-all aura, she got the impression she had caught him off guard. It was as if he had expected someone else to walk into his office but she had appeared instead. Now he was trying to decide what to do with her.

Then again, maybe he was simply surprised to have a client. The expensive fedora and the hand-tailored suit, white shirt, and striped tie suggested he had once been successful, but the shabby office made it obvious he was no longer prospering. Sage Investigations was on the second floor of a modest two-story business building. A café and a newsstand were on the street level. On the way down the hall she had passed the doors of a secretarial firm and a small-time bookkeeping business.

The used furnishings reflected the man. Somewhere along the line all the cushioning and decorative elements had been stripped away, leaving just the essentials—a scarred wooden desk, the squeaky chair behind the desk, a couple of client chairs, and a dented metal file cabinet.

There was a telephone, a brass desk lamp with a green glass shade, a calendar from the Adelina Beach Garage & Service Station, and a tray for pens and paper clips. Everything seemed to fit into the room—everything except the coatrack. It shouldn’t be in the office, but a man had to have a place to hang his hat and coat, so she supposed it qualified as an essential item of office furniture.

Sage had been reading the morning edition of the Adelina Beach Courier, the heels of his leather shoes stacked on the corner of the desk, when she opened the door a short time ago. He had immediately risen to his feet and shrugged into the suit coat. The paper was now neatly folded on one side of the desk.

“How much is the blackmailer demanding, Miss Lodge?” he asked.

“One thousand dollars.”

Sam’s brows rose. “The extortionist is not a small-time operator.”

“The note claims it will be the one and only demand, but I’m sure you’re aware that once an extortion demand is met there is always another and another.”

“I’ve heard that.”

She ignored the wry sarcasm. She had read enough Dashiell Hammett to know that private investigators were supposed to talk that way. It went with the cynical, world-weary air.

“Every advice columnist gets crank letters, but this one is different,” she continued.

“You’re an advice columnist?”

“I work for one.”

She pulled the envelope out of her handbag and put it on the desk in front of him.

He studied it briefly. “It’s addressed to Aunt Cornelia, in care of the Adelina Beach Courier.”

“I got it this morning. It arrived in a bag of reader mail sent to my employer’s address by the editor of the Courier.”

Sam glanced at the envelope. “No return address, but it’s postmarked L.A. How is this letter different?”

A reasonable question. At least he was paying attention. That was encouraging.

“It’s very specific,” she said. “Someone appears to believe Aunt Cornelia is responsible for the murder of a woman named Virginia Jennaway.”

“Who is Aunt Cornelia?”

“Me, at the moment.”

“Your name is Cornelia Lodge?” Sam asked. “I thought you said your name was Margaret Lodge.”

“My name is Margaret Lodge. I work for the real Aunt Cornelia, Lillian Dewhurst. She’s currently out of the country on a voyage to the South Seas. I’ve been handling the column for her while she’s gone. So, yes, I am Aunt Cornelia for now, but whoever sent the letter has no way of knowing that.”

“You’re certain the blackmailer didn’t aim the letter at you?”

“Of course I’m certain. I have no idea who Virginia Jennaway is—or, rather, was.”

“Jennaway,” he repeated.

“I realize this all sounds a bit confusing, Mr. Sage.”

“A bit,” he said.

She sighed. “Obviously I’m going too fast for you.”

“Not the first time that’s happened to me. I’m used to it. Please continue.”

Maybe he wasn’t very sharp. That was a depressing thought. She had already concluded she did not want to hire either of the other two private investigators in town. She had interviewed both—briefly—that morning. Adelina Beach was a pleasant community just outside L.A. It was home to a scattering of celebrities and it boasted some exclusive shopping districts. It did not have much to offer in the way of seedy neighborhoods, but Sage’s competitors had managed to find the two that did exist.

One step into the offices of the other detectives had been enough to tell her neither man would be a good bet. The first had been intoxicated even though it was only nine o’clock. The other had struck her as decidedly shady, the sort who would take a bribe to look the other way.

Sam Sage was not drunk, and he looked reasonably intelligent, or at least competent. He did not appear to be shady, but one could never be sure. She had a spectacularly failed engagement behind her to prove that her talent for lucid dreaming did not give her an edge when it came to judging the trustworthiness of other people.

“Allow me to explain,” she said, striving for patience.

“Take your time.”

That did not sit well. It was alarmingly close to calm down, which, in turn, usually came right before you’re getting hysterical.

If any of those words came out of his mouth, she would lose her temper and walk out the door. She did not want to do that. She had to get control of the situation and establish herself as the client, the one who was paying the bill and who was, therefore, in charge, because she was out of options. It was Sage Investigations or the Los Angeles phone book.

The thought of trying to find a reliable, trustworthy private investigator in the L.A. phone book was daunting. The town had a well-earned reputation for corruption. The fault line ran from the big studios straight through the police department and all the way to the courts. It was an open secret. Private investigators working in that environment were very likely to be caught up in the system. She needed someone who could not be bought, someone she could trust.

She gave Sam a steely smile, rose to her feet, plucked the copy of the Adelina Beach Courier off the desk, and opened it to the Home & Hearth section. She positioned the page directly in front of Sam.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” she said. “Perhaps that will make it easier for you to follow along.”

“Thank you, that would be very helpful.”

Reining in her temper, she pointed at the Dear Aunt Cornelia advice column. “This is Aunt Cornelia. As I told you, I have been writing the column recently, but almost no one knows that.”

He looked at the column and read the first letter aloud:

Dear Aunt Cornelia,

If a woman discovers three weeks before the wedding that her fiancé is having an affair, should she break off the engagement? This man has apologized and begged for forgiveness. He swears it will never happen again. The woman’s parents and friends think she should go through with the wedding.

Signed,

Asking for a Friend

Dear Asking for a Friend:

Leopards don’t change their spots. If your friend marries a man who cheats before marriage, she will get a man who will cheat after marriage. You wrote to Aunt Cornelia because your friend has doubts. That is her intuition shouting at her, trying to get her attention. She should listen.

Signed,

Aunt Cornelia

Sam looked up. “You wrote that answer?”

“Yes.”

Sam whistled softly. “You’re one tough lady. What? You don’t believe in giving a guy a second chance?”

“I merely pointed out the obvious to Asking for a Friend.”

“Did your advice come from personal experience?”

“That,” she said, “is none of your business.”

“Thought so. Personal experience.”

Maggie sat down. “There is an enormous amount of pressure brought to bear on a bride who cancels the wedding shortly before the ceremony. A woman who abandons a man almost at the altar acquires a certain reputation, you see, regardless of her reasons.”

“What kind of reputation?” Sam asked.

“Some will say she had an emotional breakdown and that it indicates she suffers from weak nerves. Others will tell her she is being hysterical and instruct her to calm down.”

“I see.”

“And then there is the social side of the matter. The bride will be informed that she can’t call off the wedding at the last minute because she will embarrass her family. On top of the humiliation, there are the expenses involved. The catering fees. The flowers. The champagne. The wedding gown. And what about all those wedding gifts the guests have already purchased?”

Sam nodded. “Definitely personal experience talking. Think Asking for a Friend’s friend will take your advice?”

“Who knows?” Maggie sighed. “People are very quick to ask for advice, but they rarely take it. The truth is, all they usually want to do is whine about their problems. They lack the fortitude and determination it takes to actually do something about them.”

“Interesting.” Sam leaned back. The chair squeaked. “That’s certainly been my experience. Who would have thought the private detective business and the advice columnist profession would have anything in common?”

A flicker of intuition told her he was not being sarcastic this time. Just quietly amused. That was annoying. She was not here to entertain him.

“How would you have answered Asking for a Friend’s letter?” she asked.

“Same way you did,” he said.

She relaxed a little.

“Don’t worry, I am prepared to pay you for your time,” she said.

“I am glad to hear that. I appreciate your patience, because until this morning I had never heard of Aunt Cornelia.”

“Do you, perhaps, limit yourself to the sports page of the papers?”

“I’ve been known to read the comics.”

She gave him a chilly smile. “That explains why you aren’t aware of the Dear Aunt Cornelia column. It happens to be one of the most widely syndicated advice columns in the country. It started in the Adelina Beach Courier and it appears six days a week in the Home and Hearth section. That comes right after the society page.”

“I only read the Society page when I’m working a case that involves that crowd, which is, frankly, as seldom as possible,” he said.

Her curiosity spiked. “You’ve conducted investigations in society?”

“I was a homicide detective for a few years,” he said. “I know you’ll be shocked to hear this, but rich and famous people kill each other, too.”

“Were you good at your job?”

“Yes, I was, but like you, I found the work frustrating.”

“Why?”

“Rich and famous people kill each other but they rarely go to prison.”

She nodded. “Money equals power, and power leads to corruption.”

“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.”

“How do I get in touch with you?”

“I am currently staying in Miss Dewhurst’s home on Sunset Lane. I’m looking after the house and gardens while she’s gone. She’s not in the phone book. I’ll give you the number.” She jotted down the information on a card and handed it to him. “Will there be anything else?”

“That will do for now.” He got to his feet and dropped the card into the pocket of his coat. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have any information.”

“Thank you.” She rose and glanced at the note on his desk. “What about the letter?”

“Mind if I hang on to it until I finish making the phone calls?”

“It’s the only evidence I’ve got of the blackmail threat. I don’t want to lose it.”

“You don’t trust me to keep it safe?”

“No offense, but I’ve only just met you.”

He refolded the letter, slipped it into the envelope, and handed it to her. “Take the extortion note, Miss Lodge.”

She snapped it out of his fingers and dropped it into her handbag. “Call as soon as you have news, night or day.”

“I’ll do that. Out of curiosity, are you always this prickly?”

She gave him a razor-sharp smile. “I believe so, especially when I’m the one writing the checks. If you have a problem with that, be sure to let me know.”

She turned on one stacked heel and marched toward the door.

Sam moved out from behind his desk, crossed the small space in a few long strides, and managed to get to the glass-paned door ahead of her. He opened it.

She tightened her grip on her handbag. She had done what she could. She had hoped to experience some relief after hiring a professional investigator, but the sense of impending disaster was as strong as ever.

She looked at the brass coatrack as she crossed the office—she couldn’t not look at it. Even from several feet away she sensed the whispers of rage and violence.

Keep your mouth shut, Maggie. You don’t want to give him the impression you’re one of those people who believes in paranormal energy and psychic visions.

But she couldn’t help herself.

“May I ask where you purchased that coatrack, Mr. Sage?” she said.

Sam glanced at it. “Brought it with me from L.A. It was one of the few things left after the divorce.”

So he was divorced. So what? She wasn’t here to marry the man. She had no intention of marrying anyone. She had already abandoned one groom almost at the altar, and every night when she crawled into bed alone, she vowed never to repeat the near-disastrous mistake. She had come within inches of ending up in an asylum for the second time in her life. She still had nightmares about the very close call.

Nope. Sam Sage’s divorce, like the story behind the coatrack, was none of her business. Still, for some reason, it was nice to know he didn’t have a wife. Of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a woman in his life.

Keep walking. Do not stop. Just keep going.

With a sigh, she paused in the doorway.

“Would you like some advice?” she asked.

“Depends,” Sam said. “What’s the advice?”

“Get rid of that coatrack. The sooner, the better.”

He eyed the coatrack. “Why?”

She had been afraid he would ask that question.

“It doesn’t look right in here,” she mumbled.

“What?”

Why had she bothered? Sam was obviously impervious to the disturbing shadows cast by the coatrack. She was the one with the problem. Her family and the psychiatrists and therapists they had insisted she consult had made that perfectly clear to her.

“Never mind,” she said, trying for a breezy smile. “It’s between you and your decorator.”

“Does this office look like I had it furnished by a decorator?”

“I’m sorry I mentioned the damned coatrack.” She went out into the hall. “Call me as soon as you have any news, night or day.”

“I will,” he said. But he was looking at the coatrack, not at her.

She walked briskly toward the stairs. When she went past the door of the secretarial firm she heard the quick, steady clicking of keys that indicated that an expert typist was at work. On the other side of the door there was probably another single woman trying to make her way in the world.

She reached the top of the stairs and hesitated. A tingle of awareness made her glance over her shoulder. Sam was lounging in the doorway, his arms folded. He was watching her now, not the coatrack.

When they locked eyes, he nodded once, moved back into the shadow of the coatrack, and closed the door. She knew then she should not have said anything about the coatrack. The best she could hope for was that he would label her eccentric.

He almost certainly would not get rid of the coatrack. People rarely took good advice. She was the one who would be stuck with the effects of the shadows cast by the thing. It was going to be a long night.