“No,” Nick said. He picked up his glass and gently swirled the whiskey so that it caught the light of the candle flame. “The problem raises some interesting questions but not the most important one.”
“Which is?” Lyra said.
“Motive,” Nick said. “You and Vivian seem to be convinced that Merrick is innocent. I agree that if he is guilty he would be an anomaly.”
“Why?” Vivian asked.
“Judging by what my uncle has managed to decipher so far, all of the killer’s commissions in the past couple of years appear to have originated in the Los Angeles area. Before that he was murdering people in New York. There’s no indication any of his clients or his victims lived in San Francisco. The assassin evidently prefers to work on territory he knows well.”
“I am no longer a fan of Hamilton Merrick but I think I can give you one more reason why he wouldn’t take the risk of hiring someone to murder me,” Vivian said. “He simply isn’t that ambitious.”
Lyra had been about to take another sip of her pink lady. She paused. “You’re right, Viv. Hamilton was born to attend parties and sail his yacht. He has no real interest in business. He isn’t obsessed with making money because he knows he’s going to inherit plenty of it.”
“If you’re both right,” Nick said, “if money is not the motive, then we are left with only one other likely possibility.”
Lyra’s eyes lost their sparkle. “You think the motive is somehow connected to Viv’s photography.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “I do. It’s felt that way right from the start.”
“I just can’t see any way there could be a connection,” Vivian said, “not now that the Dagger Killer is dead. He was the only one who had a reason to murder me.”
She stopped talking because a familiar figure was approaching the table.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” Ripley Fleming said. He smiled at Vivian. “I thought I recognized you in the lobby of the Burning CoveHotel this afternoon. We met briefly a few weeks ago. You may not remember me.”
He must have known that he was not the kind of man a woman would forget, Vivian thought, but the humility was charming. She smiled.
“Of course I remember you, Mr. Fleming,” she said.
“I’m afraid I did not catch your name at the time,” Ripley said.
“Vivian—” She stopped because Nick was giving her foot a less than subtle nudge under the table.
“I see you know my wife,” he said smoothly. “The name’s Sundridge, by the way. Mrs. Vivian Sundridge. I’m Nick Sundridge.”
He got to his feet and shook hands with an easy manner, as if he was accustomed to making the acquaintance of famous film stars. But Vivian got a shiver of awareness across the back of her neck. She glanced at him. In the flickering candlelight his expression was cool, controlled, polite. But she was certain he viewed Ripley with deep suspicion.
“A pleasure,” Ripley said, evidently unaware he was being assessed, analyzed, and cataloged as a potential threat.
“Mr. Fleming, allow me to introduce my sister, Lyra Brazier,” Vivian said.
Lyra was glowing with excitement. She extended one gloved hand.
“I’m thrilled to meet you, Mr. Fleming,” she said. “I’m a fan. You were absolutely amazing inShock.”
Ripley smiled. “Thank you, Miss Brazier. Please call me Ripley.”
Lyra was beyond glowing now. Vivian could have sworn she was sparkling.
“And you must call me Lyra,” Lyra said.
Ripley did not release her hand and Lyra showed no great urgency to retrieve it.
“Would you care to dance?” he said.
“Love to,” Lyra said.
She was out of the booth and on her feet in seconds. Ripley took her arm but he paused long enough to smile at Vivian.
