Page 90 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“Miss Glasson,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again.”

She smiled and sat down. “I thought we agreed that you would call me Irene.”

“We did, indeed.” Luther took his seat. His dark gaze sharpened. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Things have gotten complicated,” Oliver said. “We need some assistance.”

“How complicated?” Luther asked.

“We think that a killer may have followed Irene here to Burning Cove.”

Luther’s brows rose. “The one who murdered Gloria Maitland and Daisy Jennings?”

“Another one,” Oliver said. “And if we’re right, he is far more dangerous.”

“What makes him more dangerous?”

“If I’m reading the guy right, he’s a pro who enjoys his work.”

Chapter 40

That night they dined in the hotel’s restaurant. The room was crowded when they walked in shortly after eight, but they were immediately seated in an intimate booth on the balcony level.

The position provided a measure of privacy while simultaneously allowing a sweeping view of the main floor. It was, Irene reflected, a lot like sitting in a box seat at the theater. From her position the dining room was a stage set lit by candlelight. The scene sparkled with crystal, polished silver, and glamorously dressed people.

Oliver’s martini and Irene’s pink lady materialized along with an appetizer tray that featured lobster canapés, olives, and caviar.

“I take it this is your personal booth?” Irene asked.

“I like to keep an eye on my guests, and the view is excellent from up here,” Oliver said. “Most of the people who stay in my hotel eat dinner here even if they’re planning to go out to one of the local clubs later in the evening. I can get a list of those who don’t have reservations here tonight and those who order room service, if necessary. But I’m betting that our visiting monster doesn’t think that he has any reason to hide.”

“What makes you so sure he’ll be here at your hotel?”

“You’re the one he’s after and you’re here.”

“No offense, but your reasoning is quite chilling. Do you really think you can identify him?”

“If he’s here, yes. I’m good at reading people in an audience, Irene. It’s not that hard once you learn to pick up the cues.”

“How do you do it?”

“Like most illusions it’s really very simple,” Oliver said. “You let the subject tell you everything.”

“That actually works?”

“How do you think fortune-tellers, psychics, and mediums make their livings?”

“I’ve always assumed that people who claim to be psychic were all frauds.”

“They are. But they wouldn’t stay in business if they didn’t put on very convincing acts.”

“You’re a magician,” she said, “not a fortune-teller or a psychic or a medium. You didn’t defraud people by making them believe that you could tell them their future or put them in touch with the dead.”

He looked surprised by her vehemence.

“Thank you,” he said. “I like to think there was a difference between my cold-read performances and the fraudulent variety, but the only real difference is that my audience understood that it was an act—just a clever trick. And for the record, I never performed the talk-to-the-dead scam.”

“Of course not. People might have taken that seriously. So many do believe in spirits. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for making someone think that he or she really had communicated with the dead. That would be cruel.”

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