“Burning Cove Herald. How may I direct your call?”
“Irene Ward on the crime desk, please,” Adelaide said. “Tell her Adelaide Blake is calling. No, wait, she knows me as Adelaide Brockton.”
Sounding distracted, Irene came on the line.
“Hi, Adelaide. I just heard that Dr. Paxton, the diet doctor to the stars, died under suspicious circumstances. I also heard you were on the scene. I was about to call you for details.”
“I promise I’ll tell you all about it, but first I have a question about Madam Zolanda’s final prediction.”
“Dr. Skipton finally ruled Zolanda’s death a suicide. I think Detective Brandon has his doubts but he’s got no way to prove murder.”
“Yes, well, it looks like Thelma Leggett killed Zolanda. But that’s not what I wanted—”
“Hang on, let me get a pencil.”
“I’ll tell you everything later. Right now I need to know who was in the crowd at the Palace Theater that night when Zolanda predicted a death before morning.”
“Are you kidding? There must have been a couple of hundred people at the Palace that night.”
“Yes, but many were locals. I’m talking about Hollywood people. I’m sure that’s a relatively small number. I’m wondering if there were any directors, producers, or talent scouts in the audience.”
“Is it important?”
“I think it may be, yes.”
“Hang on, I’ll check with Trish. She covers celebrity news. She’ll know if there were any studio executives in the audience that night.”
Adelaide heard the telephone receiver clatter on the desk. She listened to the background din of the small but busy newsroom—typewriter keys clacked and a man shouted something about a deadline.
Irene came back a short time later.
“Trish says that there were a couple of actors who were staying at the Burning Cove, including Miss Westlake, in the audience. Douglas Holton was also there.”
“The director?”
“Yes. No one knew he was in town until he showed up at the Palace. Trish says he’s rumored to be looking for a new face for a key role in a film he’s going to be directing.”
“Does Trish know what the film is about?”
“Hang on, I’ll ask her.”
When Irene came back on the line a short time later, she sounded breathless.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said. “Trish tells me it’s a very hush-hush project but there is a rumor that it involves a psychic who predicts murders.”
Adelaide stared at the wall, understanding washing through her with such certainty that she felt a little dizzy.
“Zolanda thought she was auditioning for a role in that movie.”
“Do you really think so? Well, anything’s possible when it comes to actors. They’ve been known to do some very strange things if they believe that it will land them a role in a film. Still—”
“If I’m right, Zolanda was conned into setting the scene for her own murder.”
“In that case, it must have been Paxton who set her up,” Irene said thoughtfully. “He was the one with Hollywood connections, not Gill. Maybe he told her that a famous director was in the audience and that he was looking for someone to play the role of a psychic. Zolanda fell for it.”
“He promised her what all successful con artists promise their marks—a shot at something they want very, very much.”
“But she was a con artist herself.”
