Page 37 of The Other Lady Vanishes

He gave her a cold smile. “And you’re asking the same questions about me.”

“We don’t know much about each other.”

“No,” he agreed. “But as you pointed out, we’re stuck with each other. We are each other’s alibi for last night.”

“Assuming we might actually need alibis,” she said.

“When you’re dealing with murder, it’s always a good idea to have an alibi, especially if you’re the one who discovered the body. In my experience, cops are usually suspicious of the person who reports the death.”

“You’re convinced Zolanda was murdered?”

“Until proven otherwise, yes.” Jake glanced at the gold watch on his left wrist. “We can’t afford to lose any time. When can I meet Raina Kirk?”

“I’m sure there won’t be any problem getting an appointment for today.”

“Good.” Jake took his arm off the back of the seat and turned around to start the car. “How do you feel about taking in a boarder?”

She went very still. “You?”

He put the speedster in gear. “Look on the bright side—I may be out of work but I can afford the rent.”

“You’re convinced that we’re involved in something that might be very dangerous, aren’t you?”

“A blackmailer is dead and her assistant is probably in possession of a lot of secrets, including a certain diary,” Jake said. “Yes, I think we’re involved in something dangerous.”

“As of this morning, my reputation is in tatters and, as it happens, I have an extra bedroom,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind taking in a boarder. To be honest, I could use the extra money to help make ends meet.”

Chapter 20

Raina drew on all of the cool composure she had cultivated in her career as a professional secretary at a prestigious New York law firm. She needed the business, but Luther Pell would be a dangerous client.

“Exactly what is it you want me to do, Mr. Pell?” she asked.

“Someone is stealing some of my most expensive liquor,” Luther said. “The losses are never serious enough to warrant calling in the police. A few bottles of good whiskey one week, some French champagne the next. At first my manager and I attributed the missing items to inventory errors.”

“I see.” She opened her notebook and picked up a sharpened pencil. “I’m sure you go through a lot of liquor at your nightclub.”

Luther raised his brows. “Do you disapprove of my business, Miss Kirk?”

“I have no problems with it unless you are engaged in some illegal activities on the side. I’m new here in town. I can’t afford to take any case that might get me into trouble with the local police.”

“No need to worry about that. If the cops give you any problems, I’ll have a word with the chief.” Luther smiled. “My relationship with the Burning Cove Police Department is excellent.”

“Because you pay the cops very well to look the other way?”

Luther assumed a pained expression. “This isn’t L.A., Miss Kirk, and I don’t own a powerful movie studio. I don’t buy and sell the local police. I’m just a businessman, one who, at the moment, happens to have a small but rather annoying inventory problem.”

Luther Pell was certainly a businessman, but her intuition warned her that that was only one of many guises that he adopted to confront the world. There was a lot more going on beneath the surface of the man, and she was sure that some of it was profoundly complicated.

He was in his late thirties, maybe three or four years older than her, but his eyes were those of a man who had seen too much darkness. Someone had mentioned that he had served in the Great War. She did not doubt it. Violence, she reflected, always left its mark.

Tall and lean, he wore his fashionable drape-cut linen jacket and immaculately creased trousers with an air of casual sophistication. There was some interesting gray in his jet-black hair, which he wore parted on the side, lightly oiled and brushed straight back in the style made fashionable by stars such as Cary Grant.

Her plan had been to start her agency by attracting a female clientele on the assumption that women would feel more comfortable confiding in another woman than in a male investigator. She had been floored when the owner of the Paradise Club walked through her door a short time ago. She didn’t count the phone calls to L.A. that she had made to confirm the identity of Jake Truett. Those calls were favors for a friend.

“Forgive me, Miss Kirk, but I’m getting the impression that you are not interested in taking my case,” Luther said.

“I need the business,” she said. “But I’ll admit you aren’t exactly the kind of client I was expecting to attract.”

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