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  He had a folded newspaper tucked under one arm.

  “Well, well, well,” he said in a voice that managed to combine amused curiosity with just the right edge of ennui. “What do we have here? An artist, I suspect. The scarf is a nice touch, if I may say so. It adds a certain, shall we say, flair?”

  “Mr. Deverell,” Fenella said. “I wasn’t expecting you this afternoon.”

  “I happened to be driving past the gallery and decided to pop in to see if the Bancroft was still available. I’m told it is.”

  “Yes, it is,” Fenella said. “I asked Miss Curry to show you to my office.”

  “Don’t blame your clerk,” Morris said. “When I heard that you were talking to an artist I couldn’t resist having a look for myself. I find artists fascinating.”

  Fenella hesitated. Vivian got the impression that she did not particularly want to make the appropriate introductions but it was obvious she had no alternative.

  “This is Miss Brazier,” Fenella said. “She’s a photographer. Miss Brazier, Mr. Deverell. He’s an avid collector of fine art photography. The pictorial tradition.”

  “Miss Brazier is a photographer?” Morris’s eyes glittered. “What a coincidence.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Vivian said.

  “Under the circumstances, meeting you gives me a bit of a cold chill. A rather exciting cold chill but a chill nonetheless.”

  Vivian stared at him. And then she looked at Fenella, seeking guidance. Collectors were known to be an eccentric lot. She had met a few, mostly wealthy acquaintances of her parents, but the feverish excitement in Morris’s eyes and his strange comment indicated that eccentric might not be a strong enough word to describe him. Mentally unstable would be more accurate.

  Even Fenella, notoriously unflappable and believed to have ice in her veins, looked a little wary.

  “What an odd thing to say, Mr. Deverell.” She gave him a cool smile. “Please wait for me in my office. I will be with you in a moment.”

  Morris chuckled. “I gather you haven’t seen the afternoon papers, Fenella. The Dagger Killer struck again last night.”

  “Yes, I heard the news on the radio this morning while I was having breakfast,” Fenella said. “Ghastly business. But I don’t understand what that has to do with Miss Brazier’s photography.”

  “I see you haven’t heard the latest.” Morris did not take his gaze off Vivian. “According to the afternoon papers, the police have concluded that the killer is most likely a photographer. A very good photographer. An artist.”

  Vivian could not tell if it was lust or sick excitement she saw in his eyes. She opened her senses for a split second and glimpsed a hellish mix of toxic, twisted energy. She suddenly wanted to escape Fenella’s back room as quickly as possible.

  Fenella looked startled. “What on earth are you talking about, Mr. Deverell? How could the authorities possibly conclude such a thing?”

  “I doubt if they figured it out on their own,” Morris said. He finally took his attention off Vivian and smiled at Fenella. “Don’t forget there are always a number of news photographers at a murder scene. Got a hunch one of them gave the idea to the detective in charge of the investigation. Whatever the case, the newspapers are running with the story.”

  “That’s the press for you,” Fenella said. Disdain dripped from every word. “Always happy to print the wildest speculations.”

  “If you will both excuse me,” Vivian said, “I’ll be on my way.” She fastened her portfolio case and tucked it under her arm. “Thank you for your time, Miss Penfield.”

  “One more thing, Miss Brazier,” Fenella said.

  Vivian hesitated. She really did not want to hear any more about her failure as an artist but running away might make her look like a coward. Her parents had taught her to stand her ground.

  “I realize you are somewhat discouraged at the moment,” Fenella said, her voice gentling a little. “I’m sorry about that but I am only trying to give you some advice.”

  Vivian took a step toward the door. “Right. Thanks.”

  “I suggest you take a look at Bancroft’s Woman in the Window on the way out. If you decide to change your style, I would be interested in looking at more of your work.”

  Vivian suppressed the urge to say, “Go to hell.” It would not only be an unladylike response, it would not be very smart. Fenella Penfield, after all, ruled the art world in Adelina Beach and beyond, and she had just said that she would be willing to look at more pictures.

  “I appreciate that,” Vivian said.

  Clutching the portfolio very tightly, she went briskly toward the doorway. Morris Deverell smiled and got out of her path.

  “The world of art photographers is a small one,” he said as she went past. “Wouldn’t it be an interesting coincidence if the killer turns out to be someone of your acquaintance?”

  “I don’t think that’s very likely,” Vivian said.

  She forced herself to walk, not run, through the showroom of the Penfield Gallery. She did not pause to study the Winston Bancroft photograph.

  She did not take a deep breath until she was outside on the sidewalk.

  Chapter 5

  Vivian could read the headlines on the papers at the corner newsstand from halfway down the block.

  DAGGER KILLER A PHOTOGRAPHER?

  EXTRA: COPS THINK DAGGER KILLER

  PHOTOGRAPHS HIS VICTIMS

  DAGGER KILLER DERANGED PHOTOGRAPHER?

  She bought a copy of every early-afternoon paper she could find and took them back to the beach house. She sat down at the small kitchen table and read each story with great care, searching for her name. The article on the front page of the Adelina Beach Courier was typical of the others.

  Detective Archer of the Adelina Beach Police Department told reporters that the Homicide Division has a new lead in the gruesome murders that have claimed the lives of a movie star and two wealthy socialites in recent months. His investigators have concluded the killer is most likely a skilled photographer who takes pictures of his victims.

  The detective went on to point out that the three people who were murdered evidently were acquainted with the killer and trusted him enough to allow him into their homes. “There was no sign of forced entry,” he said. He added, “We now know a great deal about the murderer. An arrest is expected soon.”

  Vivian put down the last paper and half collapsed in relief. Her name had not been revealed.

  But she could not get the memory of Morris Deverell’s chilling words out of her head. “Wouldn’t it be an interesting coincidence if the killer turns out to be someone of your acquaintance?”

  After a while she got up and locked the front door.

  Chapter 6

  San Francisco

  Nick Sundridge went to the window of his Victorian town house and looked out at the fog-shrouded city of San Francisco. Mentally he counted backward from ten. When he reached the number one, he went into a light trance.

  He was still aware of the room and the scene on the other side of the glass, but he saw the real world in a remote, detached way, as if he was in another dimension. In a manner of speaking that was the case. He was in a waking dream, examining the scene of a murder.

  The bride looked at him with her dead eyes. There was a long silk scarf wrapped around her throat. Her gown was drenched in seawater. Her hair hung in wet tendrils.

  “The thing about drowning is that there is never any evidence,” the dead bride said, “except for the scarf, of course. And the money. There is always a pattern, isn’t there?”

  Nick came out of the trance with the sure knowledge that time was running out. He glanced at the clock. He had been under for only a few minutes but he was already damp with sweat. It was always that way with the fever dreams. He dreaded the aftermath. True, it left him energized bu
t it was not a good energy. It was the ominous rush that came with the knowledge he might already be too late. The sensation haunted him on every new case these days, regardless of whether it was warranted, a legacy of the near disaster on the rooftop of the hotel a year earlier.

  He reminded himself that on this occasion he had a little time. Not much, however. A couple of hours maybe.

  He grabbed a towel to mop his forehead while he took slow, steady, deep breaths and forced himself to think strategically, not with his emotions. He was actually pretty good when it came to the logic of a case. Emotions, not so much. Speed was critical, but if he made the wrong move, the new bride would die.

  When he was sure he had his senses under control he draped the towel around his neck and moved barefoot across the carpet to one of the two long tables that comprised the only furniture in the meditation chamber. The space had originally been designed as a dining room but a man who lived alone and did his own cooking had no need of a formal dining room.

  He was not alone in the chamber. Rex was stretched out under the table, waiting patiently. Now he bounded to his feet, ears pricked, and trotted forward. Ready to hunt.

  “It’s okay, pal.” Nick rubbed the special spot behind the dog’s ears. “Dreamtime is over. I’m awake.”

  In the shadows of the darkened room Rex looked more like a wolf than a dog. He had arrived in Nick’s life almost a year earlier, not long after Patricia had left. Nick had been driving to Santa Rosa to visit his uncle and had stopped at a gas station. Rex had appeared from behind the garage. He had padded up to Nick and thrust his nose into Nick’s hand.

  * * *

  Nick gave the dog a couple of pats and figured that was the end of it. But Rex had evidently made a decision. When Nick opened the driver’s side door of the car the dog jumped up onto the leather seat, stepped over the gearshift, and took up a position on the passenger’s side of the vehicle.

  Nick looked at the gas station attendant. “Your dog?”

  “Nope.” The attendant adjusted his billed cap and grunted. “Stray. Someone probably wanted to get rid of him so they took him for a long ride and dumped him out on the side of the road. Happens a lot. Costs money to feed a dog. What with the bad economy and all no one wants to waste food on a mutt that can’t earn his keep. Besides, it’s not like he’s Rin-Tin-Tin.”

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked.

  The attendant shrugged. “Seems smart enough but as far as I can tell he doesn’t do any tricks. Won’t even sit up and beg. Just stares at you like you’re not real bright. I feed him occasionally and keep a bowl of water for him but mostly he eats out of garbage cans. He sleeps around back of the garage. Comes out every time a car pulls into the station. It’s like he’s been waiting for someone to show up.”

  Nick opened the passenger side door, silently inviting Rex to vacate the vehicle. Rex ignored him. Nick reached into the car with the intention of hauling the dog out. He changed his mind as soon as his hand settled on the scruff of Rex’s neck. He got the sensation that he and the dog had a few things in common. A couple of misfits looking for the place they belonged.

  Nick closed the passenger side door.

  “Looks like whoever he was waiting for just showed up,” he said to the attendant.

  He climbed behind the wheel and got back on the road to Santa Rosa.

  * * *

  Unlike Patricia, Rex didn’t have a problem with the trances. He didn’t look at Nick as if he thought Nick was mentally unbalanced. He accepted the fever dreams with the equanimity that only a dog could summon.

  Nick wished that he could deal with the trances in the same casual manner. But the truth was they sometimes scared him. Every time he went into a dream meditation he sensed he was playing with fire. Uncle Pete had explained the visions were a manifestation of the Sundridge family curse.

  Pete Sundridge had raised him after his parents had been killed in a car crash. Nick had been thirteen when he had gone to live with his uncle. The weird trances had begun striking at odd moments. Back at the start they had been unpredictable and terrifying. Pete had sat down with him and explained the problem in a straightforward fashion.

  * * *

  “You’ve got to figure out how to deal with them because they’re going to make your life a living hell if you don’t. Actually, they’ll probably make your life a living hell at times anyway. Here’s the thing you need to remember: You can’t tell anyone else about them. People will think you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe I am crazy,” Nick said.

  “The dreams could drive you straight into an asylum but it doesn’t have to be that way. You can control them if you put your mind to it. You’re not the first Sundridge man to get the curse. The others survived. Mostly.”

  * * *

  Nick switched on a lamp and contemplated the items that he had arranged on the surface of the workbench. There was a long silk scarf, a brochure advertising the delights of a transatlantic voyage from New York to London, a couple of photos of smiling brides, and several newspaper clippings covering two East Coast society weddings that had taken place in the past three years.

  Next he studied the reports of the tragic deaths of the two brides. Both had died in the course of transatlantic voyages from New York to London. Both had been swept overboard during a storm. The grieving husbands had inherited a great deal of money thanks to insurance policies that had been taken out shortly after the weddings.

  There were no photos of the husbands in the papers, but in the modern age everyone had a camera. Sure enough, the families of both brides had a few snapshots of their daughters that included their fiancés. Yesterday copies of the photos had been delivered to Nick. He had examined them closely with the aid of a magnifying glass. There was no question but that the groom in both pictures was the same man.

  The brides were all descended from quietly respectable families. They did not move in the most exclusive circles. Weddings at the apex of the social world were scrutinized by a great many people, including family lawyers who knew how to verify the finances of both sides. Engagements frequently lasted a year and there were always a lot of extravagant parties and photographs of the future groom along the way.

  Nick was sure the man he was hunting preferred to remain out of sight as much as possible. Gilford Norburn stalked his prey in the backwaters of society.

  Nick contemplated the scenes he had summoned in the trance and then he went to the other table. Another smiling bride. This time the wedding was in San Francisco. The local papers had dutifully recorded it with a small picture of the bride. Again there was no photo of the husband.

  He glanced at the calendar and confirmed a couple of critical dates. Then he picked up the phone and called the client. It was just after dawn but Eleanor Barrows answered on the first ring. It was evident that she had not been asleep.

  “Yes?” she said. Anxiety vibrated in her voice.

  “You’re right, Mrs. Barrows,” Nick said. “Your niece’s new husband is bad news. I’m very certain that he plans to kill Linda and soon.”

  “Kill Linda? Dear heaven, I knew there was something off about Gilford Norburn. I was sure he was just after the house and the money her father left me. I took steps to protect both, at least until I’m gone. At that point she inherits everything, of course. It didn’t occur to me Norburn might murder Linda. I assumed I was the one he might try to get rid of.”

  “He doesn’t need to get rid of you because, if he followed his pattern, he took out a large insurance policy on Linda.” Nick looked at the items scattered across the workbenches. “There is always a life insurance policy.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I never considered he might insure her life.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if the policy is for an amount that is worth more than Linda’s future inheritance. They are scheduled to sail for Hawaii today.”

  “Y
es. At noon.”

  “At some point along the way Norburn will use a scarf to throttle Linda and then he will toss her overboard. The ship may be able to recover the body but it won’t matter. There won’t be enough evidence to arrest Norburn.”

  “Dear heavens. How can you possibly know all this?”

  “Because he has done this before. At least twice back East. Perhaps more often. He’s established a pattern. I saw it when I—” He stopped because any attempt to describe how he had tracked down the two East Coast brides would involve trying to explain the fever dreams. “I saw it when I examined the evidence,” he said smoothly.

  Nothing out of the ordinary, ma’am. Just the usual private investigation methods and a little help from the Sundridge family curse.

  But he didn’t say that aloud. Thanks to crime fiction magazines such as Black Mask and Hollywood’s version of the private investigator, the public had developed two distinct images of the profession. There was the sophisticated, fast-talking couple who moved in elite circles and amused themselves solving crimes at the highest level of society.

  The other image, the one that was rapidly taking hold, was that of the tough, ruthless loner who did it for the money and whose methods did not stand close scrutiny. He was pretty sure his clients put him in that category, which was a good thing because they didn’t ask too many questions.

  “This is ghastly news,” Eleanor said. “How can I convince Linda she’s married to a murderer before she boards the ship? She will never believe me.”

  “I might be able to persuade her husband to betray himself,” Nick said.

  As understatements went, that was a big one. But there was no reason to alarm the client further. Eleanor Barrows was already upset. If he explained what he planned to do, she might fly into an outright panic. She might even conclude that she had hired a mentally unbalanced private investigator.