“Sort of,” Pete said. “But don’t you worry. Nick will take good care of you.”
“I know,” Vivian said. She sat down and crossed her legs. “When do I get to meet the mysterious Luther Pell?”
“Pell thinks it’s better if he isn’t seen with you and Nick until we have a better idea of what’s going on,” Pete said. “No one knows me. I’m just a gardener who came into the hotel through the service entrance.”
“So we sit here in this very nice gilded cage and wait for the killer to come around and introduce himself?” Vivian asked.
“Doubt if we’ll have to wait much longer,” Pete said. “The Poet’s on a tight schedule.”
Vivian shuddered. “Thanks for the reminder. I think we should mess up his precious schedule. We need to do something to make him show his hand.”
“We have done something to put him off balance,” Nick said. “We moved to Burning Cove. Trust me, that will throw him for a while. It’s going to take him a day or two to find us, assuming he knows what he’s doing. Meanwhile, I need the time to study his poems and you need to get those fire scene photos developed.”
“I’ll require a darkroom,” Vivian said. “The local newspaper will have one but I doubt if the editor would let me use it. I might be able to find a camera shop that would let me rent space and equipment.”
Pete chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem using the Herald’s darkroom. All it will take is a phone call to the editor.”
Vivian raised her brows. “Who makes the call?”
“Luther Pell or, more likely, the owner of this hotel, Oliver Ward,” Pete said. “Ward’s wife, Irene, is the local crime beat reporter.”
“Why do I have the feeling this town is run by Luther Pell and Oliver Ward?” Vivian asked.
Pete shrugged. “Probably because that’s pretty much the way it is. Every town is run by someone or some group. L.A. is run by the big movie studios. Burning Cove is run by a nightclub owner who used to be a government spy and the proprietor of a hotel who used to be a magician.”
“California,” Vivian said. “Land of opportunity.”
Chapter 19
Here you go, the Herald’s darkroom.” Irene Ward waved a hand at the partially open door. “Take your time. Don’t forget the deal I made with my editor. The paper gets first crack at any photo that’s worth a headline while you’re visiting Burning Cove.”
Vivian smiled. “And you get the story.”
“Yep.” Irene laughed. “It’s always nice to work with another professional, someone who understands the news business.”
Pete Sundridge had been right about one thing: All it had taken to obtain permission to use the Herald’s darkroom was a phone call. But that call had been made by Irene Ward, not her husband. Irene was the Herald’s star reporter. Her editor trusted her instincts and was willing to accommodate her because she had provided the paper with so many hot, front-page headlines.
Vivian had liked Irene Ward on sight when they had been introduced in Oliver Ward’s private office. Vivian sensed a kindred spirit. They were both interested in the mystery beneath the surface.
“I’ll wait out here in the hallway while you work your magic with the photos,” Nick said.
“There are several films to be developed and printed,” Vivian said. “I’m going to be in here most of the afternoon.”
“Take your time,” Nick said. He held up the briefcase that contained Pete’s transcription of the poems. “I’ve got a little light reading to do.”
Irene looked at Nick. “I’ll get you some coffee.”
* * *
It was nearly five before they finally got back to the hotel. They went out onto the villa’s patio. Vivian opened the folder of large prints she had made. One by one she arranged them on the table. Nick examined each with an intense expression.
“These are excellent,” he said. “Sharp focus. Fine grain.”
“The Speed Graphic is a very good camera.”
He smiled. “And you are a very good photographer.”
“Thanks.”
She moved to stand beside him and pointed out the people she could identify. “Some of these folks are my neighbors, of course. I know their names. Most of them have lived on Beachfront Lane for years.”
“What about the others?”
Vivian used the magnifying glass, which had been magically produced by the hotel’s front desk, to examine every unknown face in the scenes.
“The fire drew quite a crowd,” she said. “There are a lot of people I don’t recognize. Any one of them could be the firebug.”
“We’re looking for someone who will be hanging back, trying to stay in the shadows,” Nick said, “trying to be invisible. By the time these photos were taken, everyone standing around in the street, including him, knew that we made it out of the house. He knew he failed.”
Nick spoke in a cool, detached manner as if he were a calculating machine. But his eyes seemed to heat a little and she could have sworn she felt electricity shivering in the air around him.
“If he knows he failed, why would he stick around and take the risk of being noticed?” she asked.
“Wrong question,” Nick said absently. “Why not stay to enjoy the show? He’s not afraid of being recognized. He’s been getting away with murder for years. He has confidence in his camouflage, whatever that is.”
Vivian shuddered. “A real wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“He’s not afraid that he will be noticed but he is bound to be unnerved because he failed,” Nick continued, very focused now. “He’s not accustomed to failure. He’ll be trying to put together another plan and he’ll be in a hurry. Time is running out. He’s going to have to improvise. He’ll make mistakes because he’s not used to changing his plans.”
“You’re getting all that from those poems?”
“Yes. He thinks of himself as a creative artist but he’s actually obsessively rigid when it comes to murder.” Nick took a close look at a figure dressed in a workman’s dark jacket and trousers. A cap angled low over the eyes concealed most of the man’s face. “Do you recognize him?”
Vivian scrutinized the figure. “No. He’s dressed like a deliveryman or maybe a cabdriver.”
“The clothes are right but there’s something wrong with the way he’s leaning against your neighbor’s fence.”