“Got it. Do you have an evening jacket? You’ll need one.”
“An evening jacket?”
“It’s Burning Cove. Of course you’ll need an evening jacket. Don’t worry if you don’t have one. I’m sure you’ll be able to rent something suitable when we get there. See you tomorrow at nine. Burning Cove is about a hundred miles north of L.A. We will be there in time for lunch.”
There was a click. The phone went dead. He took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it for a moment. No question about it. He had lost control of the conversation, the case, and the client.
Definitely time to panic.
Chapter 8
The Packard’s white leather seats were buttery soft. The polished wood inlay on the instrument panel gleamed. There was far more power under the mile-long hood than could be justified by any reasonable driver who was not on a racetrack.
Maggie Lodge drove like Wilbur Shaw roaring around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. All she lacked was a pair of racing goggles.
The top was down, so Sam had to raise his voice to be heard above the whipping wind and the howl of the engine.
“Are you sure your employer won’t mind you driving her car all the way to Burning Cove?” he asked.
“I told you, she insisted I use the Packard as much as possible,” Maggie called back. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“It’s a lot of car,” Sam said.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
The car was beautiful, and under other circumstances—if he had been at the wheel, for example—he would have been enjoying himself.The day was perfect for a drive up the coast—crystal clear blue skies and a diamond-bright ocean. But the lady at the wheel was transforming what should have been a pleasant road trip into a roller-coaster ride.
Maggie’s shoulder-length hair was once again secured with a scarf that had been folded into a triangle and knotted under her chin. She wore a white silk shirt and a pair of high-waisted dark green trousers. Sunglasses and leather driving gloves added a dashing touch. She was the kind of woman a man’s mother was supposed to warn him about: smart, independent, bold, reckless, unpredictable—downright scary.
He gripped the armrest and braced himself as Maggie accelerated out of another tight curve. He needed a distraction.
“About our cover story—” he said.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m going to tell people I’m doing research for a book on lucid dreaming and that you’re my assistant. It will give both of us reasons to ask questions and interview people.”
“You have an excellent imagination,” he said.
“I know.”
“Want some advice from a professional investigator?”
“Of course,” she said. “I hired you for your expertise.”
“If someone inquires, go ahead and tell them you’re writing a book. That won’t make people suspicious. Everyone thinks they can write a book. But let me ask the questions that relate to the investigation.”
“Probably better to play it by ear, don’t you think?”
“No,” Sam said. “What do you know about the Guilfoyle Institute?”
“I told you, Arthur Guilfoyle is making a name for himself in the field of lucid dreaming. He says he can teach people to use his Method to open a pathway to their psychic senses.”
“Is that so?”
