Page 11 of Tightrope

“That’s not particularly helpful.”

“I know.”

“Do you do this sort of thing a lot?”

He glanced at her. “What sort of thing?”

“Force your way into other people’s homes and rifle through their belongings with no idea of what you’re looking for?”

“Only when I’m bored and can’t think of anything more interesting to do.”

There. That wasn’t a lie; that was sarcasm. There was a difference. Intent mattered.

Amalie gave him her back, stalked out of the bath, and stationed herself in the outer room, arms folded.

He abandoned the search a short time later and went to stand in the middle of the bedroom, trying to come up with a new angle. It was difficult to think logically because Amalie was watching him as if she fully expected him to steal the towels.

“I take it you didn’t find what you came here to find,” she said.

“No.”

“I realize you aren’t about to confide in me but I think you owe me an answer to at least one question.”

“Depends on the question.”

“Are you the only person looking for this mysterious something?Or do Hazel and I have to worry that someone else will show up at our front door demanding access to Dr. Pickwell’s room?”

He thought about that for approximately half a second.

“That,” he said slowly, “is a very good question.” He reached inside his jacket and took out a card. “At the moment I think you and Hazel are safe. But if someone does come around asking to examine Pickwell’s things or claiming to be his next of kin, please call this number immediately.”

She took the card and glanced at it. “This is the number of the Burning Cove Hotel.”

“The front desk, to be precise. I’m staying at the Burning Cove. Whoever answers the phone will get word to me immediately.”

“I will certainly give your request my closest consideration.” Amalie smiled an icy smile. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Jones?”

She was lying through her pretty little teeth.

“This is serious business, Miss Vaughn,” he said. “Trust me, you do not want to get involved.”

“Apparently, like it or not, I am already involved, Mr. Jones.”

She had a point.

“I want your word that you’ll call me immediately if someone else shows up asking questions about Pickwell or trying to claim his belongings,” he said.

Amalie gave a small, delicate shrug. “I told you, I’ll think about it.”

“You’llthinkabout it?”

“You are not the only one who has a serious problem here. You don’t seem to appreciate the potential disaster that my aunt and I are now confronting.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I got this villa in a very sweet deal,” Amalie said. “We found out later that the previous owner dumped it onto the market at a bargain-basement price because a rather bizarre event occurred here recently.A famous Hollywood psychic jumped off the roof after predicting death during her performance at the Palace. That would be the very same theater where Pickwell was murdered tonight.”

He frowned. “You’re talking about Madam Zolanda, the Hollywood celebrity they called ‘the psychic to the stars’?”

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