As soon as they reached Guinevere’s apartment, Zac checked in with his answering service. He hung up the phone with an expression of satisfaction on his face.
“Well, one good thing came out of today, at any rate. Gertie says Evelyn Pemberton tried to get in touch to tell me she’s going to accept the job. She says we can discuss the pension plan next week. What a relief.”
“I was sure of her all along,” Guinevere informed him confidently.
“I’m glad somebody was. Now, as long as I don’t find any eggplant being served at the party, I will count myself a reasonably lucky man.”
Zac awoke early the next morning, fully alert and hating the uncomfortable sensation of being too aware. It meant matters were getting serious. He rose on one elbow and looked down at Guinevere, who slept peacefully curled against him. Whoever had tried to terrorize her would pay a heavy price. Attacking Guinevere was not within the rules of the game. Since Zac had made this particular rule himself, he intended to enforce it.
Chapter Eight
At eight o’clock on the morning after the interview with Francine Bates, Zac sat at his desk and gazed moodily out of his cubicle window. The view across the hall was as uninviting as ever. The salesman who usually occupied the cubicle on the other side of the corridor was out of town and had left his drapes pulled. Zac was staring at a wall of beige drapery, which did nothing to stimulate his mental acuity. He was looking forward to having a real view when he moved upstairs the following week.
Zac was steadily working his way through his second cup of coffee while he considered everything he had on the Madame Zoltana mess. The more he thought about it, the more he decided to spend the morning tying up a couple of loose ends. They might or might not relate directly to the matter, but in any event, his own curiosity would be satisfied. Zac finished the coffee and decided to walk down Fourth to the Seattle Public Library as soon as it opened.
Two hours later he was seated in front of a microfilm reader scanning the obituary sections of two-year-old editions of the Seattle Times and the Post-Intelligencer. It took a while, but with the help of a librarian and an index he found what he wanted. Overstreet was not a very common name. The obituary on Elena Overstreet was brief and to the point. In a copy of one of the other papers he found a short article on Mrs. Overstreet’s death. Zac dug out his notebook and made a few entries. Then he thanked the librarian and went back to his office to see how good his newly formed contacts with the police were. Shortly before lunch Zac called Guinevere.
“I’ll pick you up in a few minutes. We have a few things to talk about.”
Guinevere hung up the phone feeling uneasy. Zac’s voice had taken on that cold, detached manner it always had when he was closing in for the kill.
The kill. It was only a casual phrase used to describe the finale of a case, but somehow the words seemed underlined in her mind. Guinevere shook off the feeling and turned to Trina.
“Mind if I take lunch first? Zac’s on his way over. He wants to talk to me about the Zoltana case.”
“No problem. I’m supposed to be dieting this week, anyway. Take your time, but think of me while you’re wolfing down french fries and spinach pasta.”
“French fries and spinach pasta?”
“That’s what I’m craving at the moment.”
When Zac arrived a few minutes later, it was clear that food was not uppermost in his mind. The night before Zac had been sliding in and out of his Deep Think state. Today she knew instinctively he was on the edge of that other state of being she had seen him in when a case was closing. He was turning into a hunter. It was on these occasions that Guinevere was painfully conscious of the essential core of hardness in the man.
“I’m supposed to order french fries and spinach pasta,” she said lightly as they walked the two blocks to the waterfront.
“We’ll eat at a fish and chips stand. I don’t want to waste time at a full-service restaurant,” Zac said flatly.
“Well, at least I’ll get the french fries,” Guinevere muttered to herself. This was not the time to argue. Zac had his mind on something else.
They gave their orders at the counter of a sidewalk fish bar and waited until the trays were ready. Then they carried the food to the patio eating area and sat down across from each other.
“Okay, what gives?” Guinevere couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.
“I did a little checking this morning.”
“On what? Or should I say, on whom?”
“On Rick Overstreet.” Zac reached for the vinegar bottle.
Guinevere halted the french fry that was halfway to her mouth. “Why?” she asked simply.
“Curiosity. Plus the fact that he’s at least peripherally involved in this case. Don’t forget that whoever was trying to put pressure on you knew there was some reason you would panic at the sight of photos of you and Overstreet. That means someone knew the two of you were more than passing acquaintances.”
“Not necessarily,” Guinevere said slowly.
“Blackmail works on an emotional level. That means there has to be something emotional on which the blackmailer can base the threat. Somebody knew he or she could scare you to death with a threat involving Rick Overstreet. The next question we have to ask ourselves is whether Zoltana would know that much about you and Overstreet.”
“If Rick had talked about us at work,” Guinevere began uncertainly, not wanting to speculate on what he might have said, “someone could have heard and reported to Zoltana.”
“The only one reporting to Zoltana was Francine Bates. She admitted yesterday she’d seen you and Rick in the hall, but I didn’t get the impression it had struck her as a major event. The only man she mentioned to Zoltana was me, and only because she’d seen us leave for lunch together and assumed we were involved. It was a logical assumption. It would not have been logical to assume you and Overstreet had a secret past just because she saw you with him in the corridor at Gage and Watson.”
“We do not have a secret past!”
Zac ignored the protest, using his plastic fork to break up a chunk of fried fish. “As far as I can tell, Overstreet is the only one who knew about your past relationship with him.”
“But, Zac, why would he use that information to blackmail me into staying out of the Zoltana case? Unless—” She broke off, shocked. “Surely you don’t think he’s involved—or do you?”
Zac lifted his head, munching fish. “I went to the library and checked the obit on Elena Overstreet’s death. Did you know she died in a car accident? Went off the edge of the highway somewhere along the Oregon coast.”
Guinevere swallowed her french fry. “No. I didn’t know. Rick told me she died a couple of years ago, shortly after I stopped seeing him, but he didn’t say how.”
“There’s more. I made a few phone calls this morning after I’d checked the old newspapers. Elena Overstreet was a very wealthy woman. Family money. Rick was the chief beneficiary in her will. When she died, he became a comfortably wealthy man.”
Guinevere thought of those gleaming golden eyes and shivered. Her mouth went dry. “Do you think he killed her, Zac?”
“I don’t know. I talked to the cops about the accident. According to the report, there was no sign of foul play. There was a lot of fog that night, and Elena Overstreet had been drinking. Given the circumstances, her going over a cliff wasn’t all that surprising.”
“What was she doing driving the coastal highway? Why wasn’t she on the interstate? She was a Northwest native. She wouldn’t have been terribly concerned with taking the scenic route, especially at night,” Guinevere noted thoughtfully.
“Mmm. The question occurred to me, too. How long has Overstreet smoked those French cigarettes?”
Guinevere stared at him. “How did you know about his choice in cigarettes?”
> “I carried out the trash for you the night he visited your apartment, remember? I found the butt in the garbage.”
“Oh, yes. Quite the master detective, aren’t you?” She didn’t know whether to be annoyed or resigned. Zac hadn’t said a word to her about the smell of smoke that night. He’d simply waited until disaster had struck to inform her he already knew about her visitor. There were times when Zac frightened her a little. He had a lethal sense of timing. “He was smoking them two years ago when I first met him. He still is. I don’t know how long he’s preferred them. Why do you ask?”
“Remember the cigarette butt we found next to Zoltana’s floor safe?”
Guinevere’s stomach went tight. “I remember.” She waited for the punch line, knowing already what it would be.
“It was the same French brand that Overstreet smokes. I didn’t check the contents of her ashtrays that night. They might have all contained that brand. Who knows? It could be a coincidence. She might just happen to prefer the same brand as Overstreet. But I don’t think it’s very likely.”
Guinevere absorbed that information for a long moment. “But, Zac, what can it possibly mean?”
“It means I think we should take another look around Madame Zoltana’s this evening. If nothing else, we can verify what type of cigarette she smokes. I should have done that last time. There are other things I want to check, too.”
“We’ve already been through her house.”
“I think we missed something,” he said calmly, forking up the last of his fish.
“What makes you think that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. A hunch.”
She nodded, knowing better than to argue with him about one of his hunches. She had learned to respect them. “All right. What time shall we go? Midnight again?”
“That should be about right.”
Guinevere sat watching him polish off his french fries and wondered if Zac’s hunches were becoming contagious. She suddenly had the same need to take another look around Zoltana’s house.
***
At five minutes to twelve Zac again picked the lock on the back door of Zoltana’s small cottage. The door opened, and Zac and Guinevere stepped over the threshold.
There was no sign that anything had been touched since their last midnight visit. Cautiously they walked through the house, using Zac’s slender flashlight.
“We know someone must have used the typewriter since we were last in here,” Guinevere said as they moved into the bedroom.
“True, but if he was careful, there wouldn’t be any evidence. I doubt he’d be stupid enough to leave prints.” Zac played the light over the desk and started opening drawers.
“Zac, what exactly are we looking for? Surely the important stuff was in Zoltana’s safe, and if she was killed, the killer has whatever she was hiding.”
“I think the client files were in that safe, but I don’t think the heavy-duty stuff was,” Zac said, scanning through some notepads he’d found. “If Zoltana was into big-time blackmail, I doubt she kept her evidence in that safe.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too obvious, for one thing. Look how easily we found it. Floor safes are fairly common. Besides, it would make sense to keep her client files separate from the really incriminating stuff.”
Guinevere opened a closet door, using her handkerchief. “Maybe she put the juicy stuff in a safe-deposit box at the bank.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. I don’t think she was the type. Besides, blackmailers usually keep the evidence close at hand.”
“Why?”
“Beats me. I told you, blackmail is an emotional business—on both sides. The blackmailer knows his or her life is probably only as safe as the evidence being used against the victim. There’s an emotional need to keep that evidence under tight wraps, where it can be checked frequently. Blackmail is also very illegal, remember? The blackmailer prefers not to involve the establishment or the authorities in any way, so it makes sense to stay clear of banks. Too much chance of being observed. On top of everything else, Francine told us Madame Zoltana was a very private, almost housebound person. My guess is, she hid her evidence here in the house, and I don’t think the blackmailer found it after he killed her. If he had found it and destroyed it, he probably wouldn’t have sent you the faked pictures and the note telling you to stay out of the mess.”
“I don’t know, Zac, it just doesn’t make a lot of sense. If Rick did kill his wife, how on earth would Madame Zoltana know about it? And what evidence could she possibly have had? For Pete’s sake, we don’t even know that she’s dead or that Rick was responsible, if she is.”
“Right now it’s all guesswork. If we can find the blackmail evidence, we’ll have something to go on.”
Guinevere closed the closet door with sudden decision. “The most important room in this house is Madame Zoltana’s contemplation room.”
Zac was crouched beside the desk, checking the back of a drawer. He looked up and met Guinevere’s eyes. “A good point.”
“But we already found her secret safe in there,” Guinevere felt obliged to note. “How much could be hidden in that room?”
“Why don’t we find out?”
He got to his feet and led the way back down the hall, coming to a halt in the doorway to the contemplation room. He shone the light around the gloomy interior.
“What about the walls?” Guinevere asked, running her fingertips along the surface of one wall.
“I don’t think so. Not easily accessible. She would have had to tear up the wall every time she wanted to check her evidence. And she would have checked the evidence frequently, just to make sure it was safe.”
“Another floor safe?”
“Possible, but not likely.”
Guinevere glanced around the room. Her eyes fell on the crystal bowl in the center of the table. A thought occurred to her, and she went forward slowly, staring down into the bowl. “Francine said something,” she murmured. “Remember? Something about Zoltana saying she looked into her own future every time she gazed into the crystal bowl?”
Zac froze, his eyes on Guinevere’s profile as she stood looking at the bowl. “Lady, there are times when I think you might have missed your calling.” He strode forward and used a cloth to lift the crystal bowl aside. There was a small panel of not quite opaque plastic in the table on which the bowl had sat. Zac pressed it gingerly, but nothing happened. Then he went down on one knee, shining the flashlight up under the table.
Guinevere crouched beside him as he reached up to trace a faint line in the wooden undersurface. She recalled the small, hidden drawer he had noted on their last visit. For a few minutes nothing happened, but then Zac let out a soft, satisfied exclamation as something gave. An instant later Guinevere was gazing up into a small hidden compartment. There was a tiny battery-powered lightbulb inside. There was also a small package wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag.
“So that’s how she made the bowl glow,” Guinevere observed as Zac removed the package. “A lightbulb, just as you guessed.”
“Uh-huh.” Zac sat cross-legged on the carpet and focused the flashlight on the plastic bag. “Too bad I didn’t have enough sense to keep making guesses when I was hot. I should have checked the table the last time I was here.”
Guinevere leaned forward on her knees and read the gold embossed letters on the leather book in the bag. “It’s a diary.”
Zac peeled open the bag and pulled out the small book. He flipped it open to the first page. “Elena Overstreet,” he read.
Guinevere got to her feet. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to read that diary in this house.”
He didn’t argue, merely looked at her curiously for a few seconds and nodded. “We’ll take it back to your apartment.”
***
&
nbsp; Back at her apartment Guinevere practically ran up the stairs, carrying the diary in both hands. As soon as Zac had opened the door she headed straight for the kitchen and opened the little book on the table.
“What do you think it’s all about, Zac?”
“Calm down and we’ll find out.” He pulled the book toward him as he sat down. Guinevere leaned forward, craning her neck to read the fine, feminine hand.
The diary dated from three years previously. The last date was August fourteenth, two years earlier.
“She died August seventeenth, according to the newspapers,” Zac said as he scanned the last entry first.
Guinevere stared as a familiar name leapt off one of the pages. “Look! There’s a reference to Madame Zoltana. Damn, I wish Elena’s handwriting was easier to read. Go back a few pages, Zac. I want to see where Madame Zoltana first appears.”
Zac obediently flipped through the pages. Zoltana’s name first occurred some six months before Elena’s death.
It is clear the woman has a genuine talent. At our first session she demonstrated her abilities beyond a shadow of a doubt. She knew how unhappy I am and how fearful I have become lately. Unlike Dr. Stevens, she doesn’t try to tell me it’s all in my head and then write out a prescription for more pills. Madame Zoltana is a great comfort to me. I fully intend to make another appointment. I am not going to tell Rick about her. He would only ridicule me, and I can’t take any more of his mockery.
Guinevere sucked in her breath. “So Madame Zoltana was Elena’s psychic counselor during those months before her death.”
“Looks like it.” Zac turned a few more pages, reading quickly. “Elena Overstreet was one scared woman, Gwen. Listen to this.”
I can’t shake the feeling of foreboding. I talked to Madame Zoltana about it again yesterday, and she told me that she sees a great darkness on my horizon. I told her about my panic attacks in the middle of the night, and she said they were meant as warnings. She is hoping that if she sees me on a frequent basis she will be able to determine the nature of the warnings. I am going back to her again tomorrow. Rick is not home tonight. No doubt he is out with another of his whores.
The Fatal Fortune Page 12
