Tightrope

by Amanda Quick

  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.”

  “Hazel, wait . . .” Amalie said.

  But she was too late. Hazel was already opening the big front door.

  “Welcome to the Hidden Beach Inn,” she sang out. “You’re in luck. I believe we might have one room left . . . Oh.”

  From where she stood at the top of the staircase, Amalie could see the man who stood on the front steps. The shock of recognition made her go cold. Luther Pell’s mysterious associate, the stranger who wore a gun under his evening jacket, loomed in the doorway.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour. My name is Matthias Jones. May I come in?”

  His voice, dark and intriguing, sent little frissons of electricity across the back of Amalie’s neck. She had never responded to a man’s voice in quite that way. It probably ought to worry her.

  “Well, you’re here,” Hazel said, no longer the gracious innkeeper. “You might as well come in.”

  “Thank you,” Matthias said.

  He moved into the front hall and inclined his head toward Hazel, gravely polite. The niceties out of the way, he immediately switched his attention to Amalie. He watched her descend the staircase with an expression that somehow combined cool interest with even colder determination. Her intuition warned her that he was trying to decide if she was going to be a problem for him.

  She could have told him that the answer was yes.

  Fair enough, she thought. She had already concluded that he was going to be trouble for her.

  Matthias Jones was lean and broad-shouldered with the sort of strong, fierce features that would never qualify as handsome. The bold nose, grim jaw, and smoldering amber eyes could more accurately be described as predatory. He was not unusually tall yet he somehow dominated the room.

  He wore the same evening clothes he’d had on earlier that evening—the same crisply pleated trousers, the same white shirt, the same black bow tie. He was also wearing the same evening jacket that had been expertly tailored to conceal a shoulder holster. That meant he probably still wore the gun.

  She was very sure that he was not going to leave until he was ready to do so. Matthias Jones was both an immovable object and an irresistible force.

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Jones?” she asked, going for the cool, calm, always-in-command attitude of a professional innkeeper.

  “I understand that Dr. Norman Pickwell was a guest here,” Matthias said. “I want to take a look around his room.”

  Hazel’s brief moment of hope had given way to deep suspicion. “Are you a cop?”

  Circus people and law enforcement had a long history of a fraught relationship, to say the least. When the circus was in town, it was all too easy for the police to blame the highly transient crews of roustabouts and performers for any crimes that occurred while they were around. Got your pocket picked while you were watching the high wire act? Did a few tools go missing off your back porch? Blame the circus people.

  “No,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

  That information should have come as a relief, Amalie thought. Instead it just confirmed her earlier suspicion. Matthias Jones was most likely connected to the mob.

  “If you’re not a detective,” she said, “why should we let you look at Dr. Pickwell’s room?”

  Matthias regarded her with eyes that revealed nothing except glacial-cold control.

  “Pickwell didn’t make it,” he said. “He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”

  Hazel sighed. “Oh, dear.”

  Amalie did not take her attention off Matthias.

  “I see,” she said. “I’m very sorry to hear that. But I still don’t understand why we should allow you to examine his belongings.”

  “It’s a long story and one I’m not at liberty to discuss. All I can tell you is that I’m tracking a killer. I have reason to believe that he murdered Pickwell tonight.”

  Hazel’s brows snapped together. “So, you are a detective?”

  “I thought I made it clear,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m conducting an investigation for a friend.”

  Amalie eyed him. “You’re a private investigator?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What is there to investigate?” Hazel demanded. “Futuro, the robot, shot Dr. Pickwell. We saw the whole thing. Everyone in the audience was a witness, including you.”

  “The robot pulled the trigger of the gun,” Matthias said. “But I’m certain that the person I’m after arranged for that to happen.”

  “How is that possible?” Amalie said.

  “I don’t know,” Matthias said. “With luck, there will be something in Pickwell’s room that will answer that question.”

  He reached inside his jacket. Amalie stopped breathing.

  But Matthias did not pull out his gun. Instead he handed her a card with a phone number on it.

  “Call that number,” he said.

  She started breathing again. “Who is going to answer?”

  “A detective with the Burning Cove police. His name is Brandon. He’s in charge of the investigation into Pickwell’s death. He can assure you that I’m authorized to examine Pickwell’s room.”

  Amalie looked at Hazel, who shrugged.

  “Make the call,” Hazel said. “We don’t need any more trouble.”

  Amalie crossed the room to the front desk and picked up the receiver of the enameled white and gold telephone. The ornate phone, along with the rest of the furnishings, had come with the villa.

  She dialed the number. A gruff, masculine voice answered.

  “Brandon. Homicide.”

  Amalie heard the clacking of typewriter keys and masculine voices in the background.

  “This is Amalie Vaughn at the Hidden Beach Inn,” she said. “I’ve got a Mr. Matthias Jones here. He says that he has the authority to examine the guest room that was booked by Dr. Pickwell. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah,” Brandon said. He sounded weary. “Let Jones look at whatever he wants.”

  “I don’t understand,” Amalie said. “If this is police business, why aren’t yo
u or someone else from the department handling the investigation?”

  “Because it’s not police business, thank the Almighty. It’s Luther Pell’s personal business. That means that people like you and me want to stay as far away from it as possible. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Amalie said, “I certainly do understand. There is nothing I would like better than to stay out of Luther Pell’s business, but I seem to have landed in the middle of it.”

  There was a long sigh on the other end of the line.

  “I know. Sorry about that, Miss Vaughn. My advice? Cooperate with Jones. The sooner he gets his look around Pickwell’s room, the sooner he’ll leave you alone.”

  “Thank you for that very helpful advice, Detective Brandon.”

  She lowered the receiver into the cradle and looked at Matthias Jones.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Matthias said. “I appreciate the cooperation.”

  “Don’t thank me. Hazel and I are new in town but we’ve been here long enough to figure out how things work. You’re a friend of Luther Pell’s and Pell is one of the people who control this town. That means he also controls the Burning Cove Police Department.”

  “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

  “No, Mr. Jones,” Amalie said. “It’s a fact of life here in Burning Cove.”

  Chapter 4

  Amalie Vaughn did not approve of him. She had only just met him, but she had already leaped to the conclusion that, like Luther, he had connections to the underworld.

  She was right.

  He wanted to tell her that there were extenuating circumstances, but he knew from past experience that trying to explain his personal situation was problematic. The dilemma was that he could not risk giving her too much information for a couple of reasons. The first was that if she was not involved in Pickwell’s murder, he did not want to drag her any deeper into the business. The less she knew, the better off she was, at least for now.

  The second reason he could not tell her what was going on was that he had no way of knowing yet if he could trust her.

  He did, however, allow himself to admire the view as he followed her up the impressive staircase. She moved with a fluid grace and a sure-footed strength and agility that made him think of cats and ballerinas. Luther had mentioned that until recently she had worked as a trapeze artist. He had no trouble believing that. Something in her intelligent, watchful hazel green eyes told him that, like felines and dancers, she knew how to land on her feet.

  She was wearing a fluttery little yellow frock that emphasized her lithe, slender figure and a pair of strappy heels that showed off excellent ankles. Her coffee brown hair was parted on one side and fell in deep waves to her shoulders.

  At the landing she led the way down the hall and opened the door of number six. She stepped into the room and paused to flip the light switch.

  He did a quick survey of the suite. It was expensively furnished with an impressive bed and a padded leather reading chair. A handsome beveled mirror was mounted on the wall above a chest of drawers. The door to the bath stood ajar, revealing a lot of gleaming green and black tile. A suitcase stood on a luggage rack.

  “Doesn’t look like anything has been disturbed,” he said. “That’s good.”

  “Gosh, I can’t tell you how happy I am to know that you don’t think I stole any of my guest’s things,” Amalie said.

  Each word dripped acid. It didn’t take any psychic talent to figure out that she was more than a little annoyed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Just stating facts. Don’t take it personally.”

  She gave him a steely smile. “Trust me, Jones, I am taking it very personally.”

  The atmosphere between them had started out tense and the situation was rapidly deteriorating. That was not helpful. He tried to conjure something that might placate her but he had never been very good at charming others, mostly because that particular skill required a certain amount of judicious lying. He was an excellent liar—brilliant, in fact. But he preferred to avoid it whenever possible. He considered his talent for lying the same way he did his gun—a useful tool that was handy to have available when needed but not the sort of thing a man wanted to rely on routinely.

  “I’ll make this as quick as I can,” he said.

  “Help yourself.” Amalie swept out a hand to indicate the room. Then she folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the wall. “But I’m going to watch. For all I know you talked your way into my home and place of business so that you can prowl through Pickwell’s things and maybe help yourself to a few items.”

  That hurt, mostly because there was some truth in the accusation.

  “I thought Brandon cleared me,” Matthias said.

  “Brandon did no such thing. He just made it plain that you and Luther Pell are working together. For your information, I took that as a warning, not a testimonial to your sterling character.”

  “You don’t trust Luther Pell, either?”

  “I have never met the man but I’ve heard the rumors about him. It’s obvious that what he says goes in this town, at least as far as the local police are concerned.”

  Matthias realized that he was clenching his back teeth but he did not have the time to try to convince her that Pell was an upstanding member of the community. Actually, it was highly doubtful that he could have made her believe that, because Luther Pell was not exactly as pure as the new-driven snow. And neither am I, he thought.

  He gave up on the small talk and focused on the suitcase. It was unlocked, which told him that there was nothing inside that he would find useful. When he raised the lid, he saw some neatly folded underwear, a clean shirt, and a Dopp kit, which contained an assortment of masculine toiletries, including a shaving kit.

  Amalie straightened away from the wall, unfolded her arms, and walked closer to the suitcase.

  “He didn’t unpack all of his things,” she said. She sounded surprised. “He did seem very tense and anxious.”

  “Did he tell you how long he planned to stay?” Matthias asked.

  “The reservation was for two nights. He said that he was expecting a lot of publicity after the demonstration and he wanted to be available to give interviews to reporters. Pickwell was my very first guest. Unfortunately I didn’t ask for payment in advance.”

  Matthias took a penknife out of his pocket, snapped it open, and slit the suitcase lining.

  “What are you doing?” Amalie yelped. “That’s Dr. Pickwell’s personal property.”

  “I told you, Pickwell is dead.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can destroy his possessions. His family will probably arrive in a day or so to claim his things. What am I supposed to tell them when they see that someone took a knife to his suitcase?”

  “Send them to me.”

  There was no sign of a false bottom or a secret compartment in the suitcase. He went to the closet. When he opened the door he saw a navy blue jacket and a pair of cream-colored trousers.

  “Those were the clothes he was wearing when he arrived on the train today,” Amalie said. “I remember asking him about the robot. He said he had shipped it in a wooden crate that was taken from the baggage car to the theater by his assistant.”

  Matthias glanced at her. “The assistant’s name is Charlie Hubbard. He disappeared tonight. The police are looking for him. Did Pickwell book a room for Hubbard?”

  “No, at least not here at my inn. He said that his assistant was going to stay with the robot at all times until the demonstration. I got the feeling Hubbard’s job was to guard Futuro.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Pickwell may have put Hubbard up at a less expensive hotel or auto court. The Hidden Beach is not exactly the cheapest place in town,” Amalie said. “Do the police think he had something to do with Futuro murdering Pickwe
ll?”

  “Hubbard was either involved or else he had the bad luck to be an innocent bystander who knew too much for his own good. He’s the one person who was in a position to know what was going on backstage.”

  “There was no one else behind the curtain?”

  “No, just Hubbard. The manager at the Palace said Pickwell insisted that only his assistant be allowed backstage.”

  “Pickwell was probably afraid that someone might steal Futuro,” Amalie said.

  “I doubt it. The thing must weigh nearly two hundred pounds. It would be hard to carry it off without drawing a lot of attention. Best guess? Hubbard is connected to the shooting. He was the last person to have access to the robot. One way or another I doubt he’ll be alive for long.”

  “Why do you say that?” Amalie whispered, clearly stunned.

  “He played his part and is no longer needed.”

  “Who doesn’t need him?”

  “Forget it,” Matthias said. “How many suitcases did Pickwell have with him when he checked in?”

  Amalie concentrated, visibly trying to refocus her thoughts. “Two. I helped him with his luggage. One was the grip the robot carried onstage. It was very heavy. Dr. Pickwell was alarmed when I went to pick it up. He insisted on carrying it upstairs himself. I thought he was being a gentleman.”

  “No, he was protecting what was inside. He didn’t want to let it out of his sight, not even for a moment.”

  “He said it contained some equipment that he needed for the demonstration. Why are you so interested in Pickwell’s luggage?”

  “Because there seem to be a number of suitcases floating around in this affair.”

  Amalie shuddered. “This is all so bizarre. I still can’t bring myself to believe that Dr. Pickwell was murdered by a robot.”

  “Neither can I.”

  Amalie eyed him thoughtfully. “Then what, exactly, did happen tonight?”