“Of course not. No one could rack up that many interesting experiences no matter how hard she tried. What success I’ve had in the magazine market is a tribute to my creativity, if you ask me. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to come up with a lot of fake confessions.”
“I am, of course, shocked to hear that those magazines are printing fiction.”
She laughed. “The same way the detective and police magazines print fake crime stories.”
Sam gazed straight ahead at the two-lane highway and considered the fact that he had a writer for a client, one who wrote fake true confessions. Could this case get any screwier?
It was time to change the subject.
“Where are we staying in Burning Cove?” he asked.
“Sadly, not the Burning Cove Hotel.” She stomped on the gas as they came out of a curve. “Two reasons. First, I doubt if I could have gotten reservations on such short notice. Second, the Institute recommends that conference attendees stay at a nearby hotel, the Sea Dream, which is affiliated with the Institute and is within walking distance of the grounds. I was able to get us connecting rooms. That way we’ll be able to discuss our findings in private.”
Our findings.The words chilled his gut. Or maybe he was getting carsick.
“There are two formal receptions,” Maggie continued. “I believe I mentioned the champagne event scheduled for tonight. The other event is a farewell cocktail party on the third night of the conference. Did you bring an evening jacket, or should we go shopping in Burning Cove?”
He held his breath as Maggie braked for another curve. Distraction was no longer working.
“You’d better pull over,” he said.
“Why?”
“Two reasons. The first is that it’s my turn to drive.”
“I don’t mind driving. I enjoy it.”
“The second reason is that if you don’t pull over and change places with me, I am going to be ill all over these nice leather seats.”
“A delicate stomach?”
“Oh, yeah. Very delicate.”
She slowed the Packard and pulled into a turnout. He opened his door with a sense of relief and extricated himself from the depths of the seat. Maggie got out on her side of the car. Without a word they changed positions.
He put the convertible in gear, pulled out onto the highway, and drove toward Burning Cove at a sedate pace.
“I guess you aren’t accustomed to fast cars,” Maggie ventured after a moment.
“Guess not.”
“I’m sure you’ll get used to this one soon,” Maggie said encouragingly. “It’s exciting to drive.”
“Uh-huh.”
“About your evening jacket,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’ve arrested a few mobsters in my time. I know how to dress for a town like Burning Cove.”
Chapter 9
Looks like they intend to sell the hell out of the Guilfoyle Method,” Sam said. “This place must have cost a fortune, not to mention the money it took to remodel it so it could be used for commercial purposes.”
“I must admit I’m a little surprised, myself,” Maggie said. “Guilfoyle is a rising star in the dream analysis world, but I didn’t realize he was this successful.”
They were standing in an alcove on one side of the vast room, champagne glasses in hand. Together they watched Arthur Guilfoyle and his wife, Dolores, welcome guests to the champagne reception. There were at least a hundred people so far, and more were arriving by the minute. The women floated around the room in beaded gowns and sparkling jewelry. As Maggie had predicted, the men wore evening jackets.
Sam figured that between his career as a homicide detective in L.A. and his short-lived marriage to the daughter of a wealthy tycoon, he had seen the interiors of enough mansions to be able to judge the oldCarson Flint estate. No question about it, the sprawling complex of Spanish Colonial–style buildings that was now the Guilfoyle Institute was impressive even by Southern California standards.
