“You said it yourself—the murder was like a scene out of a horror movie.”
Hazel had been about to pour herself some more brandy. She hesitated. “Meaning?”
“Movies are elaborate illusions designed to fool an audience. Maybe we should not believe everything we thought we saw onstage tonight.”
“Huh.” Hazel appeared intrigued. “Do you think Dr. Pickwell faked his own murder?”
Amalie thought about the grim expressions she had seen on the faces of Oliver Ward and Luther Pell. Then she remembered the stranger who had worn a shoulder holster under his evening jacket.
“I am almost positive that Pickwell was shot with real bullets tonight,” she said. “But I am not so sure that the robot is to blame.”
“How can you say that? We saw that thing shoot Pickwell.”
“Maybe we saw what we were meant to see. Think about it, Hazel. You and I both know how easy it is to fool an audience.”
“True. But that blood looked real.”
“I agree.”
Hazel pursed her lips. “Don’t you think it was strange that those two mob guys, Pell and his friend, were the first to rush down to the stage?”
“Oliver Ward and his wife headed for the stage, too.”
“Sure, but Irene Ward is a crime reporter. It makes sense that she would want the story and that her husband would want to keep an eye on her. There was no way to know if that robot would come back and shoot some more people. But why did Pell and that stranger get involved?”
“I have no idea,” Amalie said.
Hazel heaved a sigh and sank into one of the oversized chairs. She gazed morosely into the unlit fireplace.
“I suppose this means we’re going to get stiffed on the room rent,” she said. “Can’t collect from a dead man.”
“We don’t know for sure that Pickwell is dead,” Amalie said, trying to stay optimistic. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Take your time. It’s not like we’ve got a villa full of paying guests to look after.”
Amalie went quickly up the staircase. All things considered, it had been a very odd evening. She did not want to admit it, but Hazel might be right. Perhaps the disaster at the Palace tonight would hurt future business.
When she reached the landing, she turned and went down the hall. She and Hazel had made certain to give Pickwell the best suite in the villa.
Make that the second-best suite.
Strictly speaking, number six wasn’t the most luxurious room in the mansion. That title belonged to the suite that had been used by Madam Zolanda, and after one quick look, Amalie and Hazel had decided not to rent it out to guests. The psychic’s belongings—her colorful wardrobe, her personal effects, jewelry, costumes, and shoes—were still there.
The previous owner of the villa had instructed the real estate agent to sell the property with all of its contents. When Amalie had taken possession of the mansion, she had become the new owner of everything in Zolanda’s suite. There were no truly valuable baubles inside, but there were several nice pieces of jewelry, and some of the scarves and gowns were made of expensive materials. The plan was to discreetly sell a pair of earrings or a bracelet or perhaps a turban or a gown if and when the inn’s financial situation grew truly desperate.
She was in the process of sliding the key into the lock of number six when she heard the muffled rumble of a powerful engine turning into the drive. She listened closely. An expensive car, she decided. Not the police, then.
She let herself into the darkened room and hurried across the carpet to the French doors that opened onto the small balcony.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the doors and went out onto the balcony. Careful not to look straight down into the dense shadows of the gardens, she gripped the wrought iron railing and focused on the long sweep of the drive.
The twin beams of brilliant headlights slashed the night, moving swiftly toward the entrance of the villa.
A wave of apprehension came over her. She was very sure that whoever was behind the wheel of the speedster was not bringing good news.
She hurried back inside, paused to close the balcony doors, and went down the hall. The doorbell chimed just as she reached the top of the staircase. She saw Hazel rush toward the front door.
“I wonder who that can be?” Hazel said. “Sounds like an expensive car. Maybe it’s someone who just arrived from L.A. and wants a room because the Burning Cove Hotel is full. Perhaps we aren’t doomed, after all.”
