Page 4 of The Other Lady Vanishes

“Maybe he just needs a reason to smile.” Florence winked, picked up the pot of tea she had just prepared, and bustled out of the kitchen.

There was no point arguing with her. Adelaide suppressed a sigh, dusted tea off her hands, folded the top of the sack, and went out of the kitchen. The customer, a harried-looking young woman dressed in a business suit, was waiting anxiously at the counter.

“Here you are, Miss Moss,” Adelaide said. “Miss Westlake’s special blend, Tranquility.”

Vera Westlake was the latest Hollywood celebrity to discover Refresh. Florence, who followed the celebrity gossip magazines with great enthusiasm, had been thrilled when the star the press had labeled the most beautiful woman in Hollywood became a customer.

“Thank you.” Miss Moss opened her handbag and took out her wallet. “Miss Westlake will be very happy to get this. She ran out this morning while she was studying her new script. She insisted that her driver bring me into town immediately to get some more. She says that drinking the special blend you made up for her helps her maintain her focus.”

“Always happy to be of service,” Adelaide said.

Miss Moss paid for the tea and scurried out of the lightly crowded tearoom. A limousine was waiting for her. She climbed into the rear seat. The driver motored off down the tree-lined street.

Adelaide picked up a pad and pencil. It was time to take Jake Truett’s order. Green tea. No sugar. No tea cakes. No scones. No cookies.

Truett had become a regular shortly after arriving in town eight days earlier. Florence had immediately made a few inquiries. She had returned with the news that Truett was a businessman who, until recently, had owned an import-export business headquartered in Los Angeles. After the death of his wife, he had sold his business and retired.

According to Florence, there were rumors that Truett had some health problems—something to do with exhausted nerves. Evidently his doctor had ordered him to spend a couple of months at the seaside in the hope that the ocean air and long walks on the beach would help him recover.

His nerves aside, Truett certainly appeared physically fit. Unlike so many of the celebrities and socialites who vacationed in Burning Cove, he lacked the snaky-thin body that was the Hollywood ideal, a look that was generally achieved through chain-smoking and the frequent consumption of cocktails. Truett was lean but he was sleekly muscled.

She found the rest of him equally intriguing. He was tall but not exceptionally so. He didn’t tower over her the way Conrad had done. His dark hair was cut short and parted on the side. He was not unhandsome, but his ascetic features were too austere to be labeled handsome. His eyes were an arresting shade of amber brown—cool, watchful, and intelligent, but very hard to read. She sensed that he was always aware of what was going on around him, but she could not tell what he was thinking. He was the watcher in the shadows, not an actor on the stage.

There was something implacable and forbidding about him. She had the feeling that he would be slow to anger, but if you pushed himover the edge, he would make a formidable enemy. His revenge would be cold and thorough.

There was nothing about him that suggested he suffered from exhausted nerves.

She reminded herself that those who suffered from afflictions of the nerves often appeared quite normal. She was a case in point. She had been successfully passing for normal in Burning Cove for two months. No one had guessed that she had spent nearly two months locked up in the Rushbrook Sanitarium.

Order pad and pencil in hand, she whisked around the end of the counter and crossed the tearoom to the table where Jake Truett sat reading theBurning Cove Herald. His leather briefcase was on the floor beside his chair. She knew from eight days of personal observation that there was a yellow legal pad and four perfectly sharpened pencils inside. She also knew that after he finished reading theHeraldfrom first page to last, he would open the briefcase, take out the yellow pad, and make notes.

He wore his customary uniform, a crisply pressed white shirt, an elegantly knotted tie, a cream-colored jacket, and dark brown trousers.

She knew that he was aware that she was approaching his table, but he waited until she came to a halt, pencil hovering over the order pad, before he looked up from the newspaper. She braced herself as she always did for the little electric thrill that crackled through her whenever she was this close to him.

He nodded once, gravely polite. “Good morning, Miss Brockton.”

“Good morning, Mr. Truett.” She gave him her bright, customer-friendly smile. “Will you be having the usual today?”

“Yes, please. The green tea. No sugar. No tea cakes. No scones. No cookies.”

His voice, low, resonant, and so very masculine, sent another whisper of excitement through her.

“Right,” she said. “Will that be all, then?”

He glanced at the pencil and pad she was holding. “You didn’t write down my order.”

“No need.” She tapped the side of her waitress cap with the tip of the pencil. “I’ve got a pretty good memory.”

“And I am nothing if not boringly predictable.”

She was horrified. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were boring. Not at all. I’m very sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Iamboringly predictable. In fact, you could say I am going out of my way to be boring and predictable. My doctor suggested I stick to a strict routine, you see. Supposedly it’s good for exhausted nerves.”

Adelaide cleared her throat. “In my experience the so-called experts don’t always know what’s best for exhausted nerves.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you. The green tea you serve here at Refresh has done me more good than any nerve tonic.”

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