Page 118 of The Other Lady Vanishes

“That doesn’t matter,” Adelaide said. “If anything, it made her even more vulnerable. She was probably convinced that she couldn’t be conned because she knew all the tricks. But logic and common sense go out the window in a heartbeat if the deceiver offers you something you want very badly.”

“You’re right. And it does answer the question of why Zolanda gave that creepy final act. Do you realize what this means?” Excitement sparked in Irene’s voice. “I’ll get one more front-page headline out of the dead psychic story. My pieces on Zolanda have all gone national. Wouldn’t be surprised if this one does, too.”

“That’s great,” Adelaide said. “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you later.”

“Promise you’ll call me immediately if you come up with any more interesting theories about Zolanda’s death.”

“I promise.”

Adelaide hung up the phone and stood quietly for a moment. Knowing that a powerful director was in the audience and that he was in the process of casting a new picture that involved a psychic went far toward explaining why Zolanda had given that last shocking performance. But something didn’t feel right. Why had Paxton gone to such dramatic lengths to set the scene for Zolanda’s death? Why not simply drug her, push her off the roof, and let the authorities conclude that she had taken her own life?

Why make Zolanda believe that her dreams might come true, that she had an opportunity to showcase her talent for a powerful director?

Zolanda’s carefully staged death had all the hallmarks of a carefully plotted act of revenge.

Adelaide contemplated the hatbox.

The kettle was whistling. She crossed the kitchen and took it off thestove but she did not bother to pour the water into the pot. Instead she went to the table, opened the hatbox, and took out the journal.

Each entry listed only a set of initials, a date, a note about the form of the blackmail material—letter, photo, diary—and a number that corresponded to a particular sealed envelope. The night before, Jake had quickly discovered the packet containing Elizabeth’s diary because he had recognized her initials and the date when she had given the extortion materials to Zolanda.

The remaining initials and dates meant nothing at first glance. Adelaide realized that she would have to go through the journal line by line and open each corresponding packet to see if there were any clues to the identity of the killer.

She decided to start from the most recent entries and work back toward the oldest. She was prepared for several hours of work, but in the end the answer leaped off the page.

The third most recent entry was annotated with a cryptic abbreviation:Pt. File.The accompanying initials meant nothing—J. T. But the date was approximately four months before she had been kidnapped and locked up at Rushbrook.

The Duchess had mentioned that Patient A had vanished a few months before Adelaide arrived at the asylum.

A rush of dark energy flooded through her. She went through the envelopes in the hatbox until she found the right one. Ripping it open, she dumped the contents on the table. She picked up the first one. And nearly stopped breathing when she realized she was looking at the sanitarium record of Patient A. There were several pages of Ormsby’s detailed notes.

Patient A lapsed into another delirium following the third dose...

Patient A experienced strong hallucinations again today...

Patient A was cooperative for a time and then abruptly became hysterical...

Orderlies report that Patient A hallucinated all night again. Can’t risk giving her a sedative because of the chance of inducing a coma...

There was far more information on the first test subject. She was a female. She had signed the commitment papers voluntarily. She had been hospitalized for nervous exhaustion. When she had arrived at Rushbrook, she was accompanied by a friend who insisted that the patient be admitted under an assumed name.

And just to complete the blackmail file there were some photographs of Patient A in a Rushbrook Sanitarium gown. Her face was disconcertingly slack, as if she had been drugged, but Adelaide could see the helpless rage in the woman’s eyes.

In one of the photos, she was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed. The gown was hiked up to her waist. She was not wearing anything underneath. Her legs were spread wide. Calvin Paxton, his trousers down around his ankles, stood between her thighs.

In the next photo Gill was the one who had been photographed raping the helpless, drugged woman.

Adelaide dropped the files on the table, jumped to her feet, and rushed across the kitchen to seize the phone.

There was no dial tone. The line had been cut.

She had to get out of the house.

She grabbed the car keys and yanked open the kitchen door.

Vera Westlake emerged from the shadows at the side of the doorway. She had a gun in her right hand.

“Not another step,” Vera Westlake said. “I can’t miss. Not at this distance.”

---