“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
Right caller, but Margaret Lodge was not in a good mood. She was furious.
“Miss Lodge?” he said, trying to play it cautiously.
“Yes, of course it’s me. Who else would be calling you at this hour?”
“As a matter of fact—”
“By the way, as we’re going to be working together, you might as well call me Maggie. Did you read theAdelina Beach Courierthis morning?”
He glanced at the paper on his desk. “Not yet. Why? Is there—”
“Open it. Turn to the Celebrity Confidential column. Hurry.”
He braced the phone between his shoulder and his right ear and reached for the paper.
“Where is the Celebrity Confidential column?” he asked.
“Bottom half of the Society page.”
Impatience sharpened her voice. He decided not to ask for further instructions. He had a feeling she had already concluded he was not Sam Spade or Nick Charles.
He found the Society page, located the column beneath the fold, and read it aloud:
What famous advice columnist was seen drinking an endless stream of Manhattans at the Paradise Club in Burning Cove, that vacation destination of the rich, famous, and shady? None other than the notoriously reclusive Aunt Cornelia. Yes, that Aunt Cornelia, the one who appears six days a week in newspapers across the country.
Who would have guessed the trusted adviser to thousands is not the prim and proper matron of our imaginations but rather a glamorous redhead with a wardrobe any Hollywood actress would cheerfully kill for?
We’re told Aunt Cornelia is in town to attend the opening conference at the new Guilfoyle Institute. Perhaps she hopes to learn how to use her dreams as a resource for advice she can pass along to her faithful readers.
He put the paper down on the desk. “I’m assuming you did not know your employer was in Burning Cove.”
“Lillian most definitely isnotin Burning Cove.” Maggie’s voice was tight with outrage. “I told you, she is on an extended voyage in the South Pacific. Also, she is not a redhead, and she drinks martinis, not Manhattans. She does not go out to hot nightclubs. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Mr. Sage?”
“Sam,” he said automatically.
“What?”
“If I’m supposed to call you Margaret, you had better call me Sam.”
“Maggie, not Margaret. My ex-fiancé called me Margaret. You do not want to remind me of him.”
“Okay. Right.” The conversation had lurched violently off topic. Sam forced himself to focus on the case. “I understand you think someone is pretending to be Aunt Cornelia.”
“It’s quite obvious a fraud has discovered the real Aunt Cornelia is out of the country and is now impersonating her in Burning Cove.”
“Why?” he asked, grasping at a frail strand of logic that appeared to be dangling in midair.
“I have no idea,” Maggie said. “But we have to do something about this immediately.”
It was thewe have to do somethingthat alarmed him.
“Don’t worry,” he said, trying to sound professional and reassuring. “If you’re prepared to pay for a trip to Burning Cove, I’ll drive there and talk to the woman who is claiming to be Aunt Cornelia. But maybe you’d like to hear my report on the death of Virginia Jennaway first?”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I was so shocked by the Celebrity Confidential piece about Aunt Cornelia I almost forgot the Jennaway situation. What did you find out?”
“I just got off the phone with a detective who works homicide in Keeley Point. He said Jennaway’s death was ruled accidental but afterward there were rumors.”
