Hypnosis is for hacks, p.6
Hypnosis Is for Hacks, page 6
By this time, Gillian has noticed that I’m standing right behind her and that Liam, with nothing better to do, is standing right behind me. She angles her body to shield the man from us, but it’s an exercise in futility. The crowd that’s gathered by now is almost equal to that on the beach last night. Apparently, people in Brighton have a hard time finding anything to do when the sun is behind a cloud.
“They took my watch. A Breitling Navitimer. And my opal cuff links. And a diamond tie pin and my signet ring. That last one is irreplaceable. It’s been in my family for generations. They broke into my room safe and took them.”
Gillian looks to the front desk clerk as if for confirmation. The woman nods slightly.
“These items were taken just now?” she asks. “While you were in the room?”
“That’s what I keep saying!” the man cries. “I had just closed my eyes for a little rest, but I must have fallen asleep. I heard the sound of flames crackling and woke to find two men hunched over the safe. At least, I thought they were men.”
I can’t help but intrude. Mention of crackling flames and the two men is too coincidental to ignore. “I’m sorry—did you say you heard flames?”
He turns his fulminating eye on me. “Who are you supposed to be?”
I extend my hand before Gillian can stop me. “Madame Eleanor Wilde, paranormal investigator.” This last bit is added at the last minute, but I like the way it sounds. It’s official enough to get me answers but not so official it’ll get me run out of town with pitchforks. “Tell me more about these flames you heard. Are we talking leaping bonfire, or like, a gentle hum in the background?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” he protests.
He wouldn’t, but that’s only because he didn’t spend six months of his life working alongside a hypnotist. When you want to mask the sounds of an activity you’d like to go undetected—breaking and entering, for example—white noise is the way to do it. The constant and repetitive state lulls the brain into thinking all is well, especially in the deep recesses of slumber.
Armand loves white noise almost as much as he loves dangling a pocket watch. In fact, it’s one of his signature go-tos. However, that bit about there being two men is unlike him. And, given last night’s events, unsettling.
“What happened to the two men, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He waves his hands in a vague, airy gesture. “Poof. They disappeared. Vanished. Puffed into thin air.”
I can’t help looking at Gillian. As I hope, she glances back. She doesn’t like this new information any more than I do, but she can hardly refute a witness’s evidence as he gives it.
“What about their distinguishing details?” I persist. Taking a page from the inspector’s book, I add, “Anything at all—clothing, hair color, build?”
Gillian won’t admit it, but she approves of this line of questioning. I can feel it in the way she leans forward for the answer, her whole body expectant.
The man blinks, slowly at first and then gaining speed until all he can do is shake his head. That action, more than the words that follow, convince me he’s telling the truth. He’s more surprised by his own revelation than we are.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I can’t remember.”
Behind me, Liam lets out a small squeak. “It was them,” he says. “It was the same figures from last night.”
Not surprisingly, this piece of news does little to calm the irate man down. Now, instead of blustering about his missing valuables and thieves lurking about, he starts going on about missing valuables and figures lurking about. Neither of those things are good for a hotel as expensive and classy as this one.
Of everyone here, I’m the most qualified to help calm the man down, but Gillian loses no time in getting rid of me. And she does it without even pretending to be polite, which leaves me feeling both annoyed and impressed.
“Get these two out of here,” she commands the front desk clerk as she strides away, her hand clamped on the angry man’s arm as she drags him behind her. “I don’t care how you do it as long as you do it quickly. And find a way to shut them up about those shadow figures. The last thing we need is for people to get hysterical.”
“That sounded rather ominous,” I remark to no one in particular. Mostly because no one in particular is paying much attention to me. The crowd has followed the sound of the shouting, leaving me and Liam standing awkwardly at the desk. “How does she want you to shut us up? With duct tape? A knife? I should warn you—we don’t go down easy.”
The front desk clerk grins her appreciation. The lines around her mouth deepen from an etching to a groove, placing her age closer to forty than twenty. “Bribery, actually. I’m at liberty to tell you that the Brighton Luxe is prepared to comp you for the rest of your stay with us. For any emotional pain from what you witnessed last night.”
This gets me to perk up in a flash. “Really? The whole stay?”
The woman starts to nod, but Liam bursts in before she can finish. “Does our emotional pain also include a room upgrade? Two vanishing bad guys seem like they’re worth at least a suite.”
“Liam!” I cry, only half protesting. It’s wrong to benefit from a man’s death, I know, but we did witness something terrible. And our room is so small....
The woman’s grin deepens. She’s susceptible—as so many are—to that particularly wheedling smile of my brother’s. He could have made an incredible fake medium, had he ever decided to take up the trade. With a tap of her fingers on the keyboard, she says, “Let me see what I can do.”
As she busies herself comping us all kinds of perks and bonuses, I nudge Liam with my hip. “Can you really not remember what those guys looked like last night?” I ask, careful to keep my voice low. “Nothing at all?”
He shakes his head. “No. The whole night is kind of fuzzy. It felt so sharp and real at the time, but now . . . I don’t know. It’s like someone went inside my head and rubbed an eraser over it.”
I absorb this comment with a sinking heart. If that bit about the crackling flames hadn’t already cast suspicion on the dear, departed Armand Lamont, then our muddled memories would be sure to do the trick. There’s only person in the world—or, at the very least, this hotel—capable of that kind of mind control.
I’m going to kill him, I think with a grimace. Again.
Chapter 6
“You, there. The pale woman who just walked in. Guess a number between one and a hundred.”
I pause on the threshold of the pub I’ve just entered, giving my eyes a moment to adjust to the lights and my throat a chance to bite back its groan. Thanks to the inclement weather and the fact that a man recently died in the water, it’s more crowded than it would usually be at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s also more intoxicated than it would usually be at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. Armand must be desperate if these are the sort of people he’s working nowadays. It’s practically highway robbery.
Or, as is more likely the case, hotel robbery.
“No, thank you,” I say in my most damping tone. “I don’t do magic tricks.”
I recognize this remark for a mistake almost immediately. The first rule of dealing with a mentalist is not to deal with him at all.
“Oh, but this isn’t a trick, little lady. I can read your mind. I could read it the moment you walked in the door.”
I narrow my eyes and run my gaze over Armand’s attire. I know this ruse well. He probably has several different numbers written on his body right now, as the many layers of his elegant clothing indicate. The bottoms of his feet, the back of his knees, inside his elbows—even his neck probably has a few, carefully concealed behind the crisp white ascot he wears. He’ll have chosen numbers that end in a nine or a seven, as those are the most commonly picked random digits. Sixty-nine, seventy-seven, thirty-seven . . . people are painfully predictable when it comes to this sort of thing. All he has to do is find the most average-looking person in the crowd, ask them to pick a number, and voilà. He can roll up the matching sleeve or take off the designated shoe and pretend that he knew their choice hours in advance.
“Fifty,” I state baldly. My time with Armand wasn’t wasted. Very few people pick fifty. Statistically speaking, it’s the number he’s least likely to have written on his person.
“Aha!” A self-satisfied smile curves his lips. “I knew you’d choose that one. Where’s the man I gave that slip of paper to when I first came in the bar? Could you tell me what it says?”
The man in question gets up from his stool and digs in his back pocket until he pulls out a slip of lined yellow paper. “Well, I’ll be,” he says as he unfolds it and brings it close to his face. “It says fifty.”
Of course it does. I’m not as shocked by this as the rest of the pub’s patrons seem to be. It just means Armand has been expecting me and, knowing that I know what he knows, guessed I’d pick the most difficult number. The man with the piece of paper has the bloodshot eyes and hunched posture of someone who spends most of his time on that bar stool. All Armand had to do was keep buying him drinks and rest assured that I’d show up eventually.
“How exciting,” I say, my voice devoid of inflection. “You read my mind.”
“I can read a lot more than that, if you’ll give me a chance,” he replies.
I don’t intend to give him any such thing. Since I came here with the express purpose of finding him, however, I slide into the darkest booth in the darkest corner and wait.
Although I try to tune Armand out, I can hear him finishing his performance in the background. From experience, I know this will take quite some time, so I pull out my phone and start playing a colorful game of lining up baked goods. I’m in the middle of demolishing a row of snickerdoodles when he finally joins me.
“I hope I didn’t alarm you with my ability to see deep into the recesses of your mind,” he says, as though speaking to a stranger. “Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?”
I keep up the pretense by agreeing, but as soon as no one is paying attention to us, I kick him under the table and hiss, “Cut the crap, Armand. Where are the goods?”
He knows the kick is coming, drat the man, and neatly dodges. Mentalists really are the worst of all the magicians, tricksters, and charlatans out there. They take the fun out of everything.
“I’ve been at this pub for three hours,” he says by way of answer. He lifts a hand and signals to the bartender, who must have been prepped ahead of time because he has two pints of something golden and liquid ready to go. “I didn’t think it would take you so long to find me. What held you up?”
Meeting at the local watering hole is something of a tradition of ours. Back when we worked together, it was sometimes necessary for us to pretend not to know one another. Reluctant families that refused to be swayed by one psychic could often be moved by two pretending to work independently of one another. When that happened, we’d meet in the most remote bar in the immediate vicinity to compare notes.
These memories don’t make me feel any warmer toward Armand. Although I don’t regret most of the choices I’ve made in my life and in my career, I do regret falling so far under his spell. When I worked with him, I agreed to cases that I might otherwise have passed over, took advantage of people beyond what they could afford. The loneliness of my life back then could be blamed for part of why I let him in, but it doesn’t explain everything.
In truth, I liked how invincible Armand made me feel, how superior we were to everyone else. Pride has always been my besetting sin, and this man knows it. He can sniff out a person’s weakness in the same amount of time that Beast and Freddie can find a recently opened can of tuna.
“You know why it took me so long,” I say, refusing to let myself get pulled in. It’s easier now that I have people in my life who accept me as I am, but the temptation is still there. “What did you do with that man’s watch and tie pin?”
His look of surprise seems genuine, but I know better than to trust it. “What man are we talking about? If it’s that guy I hypnotized on the elevator, I used my own watch. I always do.”
As if to prove it, he tugs on a long gold chain that dangles from his waistcoat. He allows it to swing like a pendulum in front of my gaze, but I swiftly shut my eyes. I don’t think I’m susceptible to that sort of thing, but I’m not taking any chances.
He laughs. “Relax. I’m not going to do anything to you.” He pauses and adds, “Not yet, anyway. How’s Vivian doing this afternoon?”
I pop one eye open. “You stay away from her. She’s not the feeble old woman you think she is. She’ll chew you up, spit you out, and dance on the remains.”
This only causes him to laugh harder. “You always did love a challenge, didn’t you?” He leans earnestly over the table. Neither of us has touched our beers, but that makes sense. Intoxication doesn’t suit our particular game very well. “How much does she know about you?”
“Enough to render your plan useless, so don’t even think about it. Nothing you say to her will hurt me.” I pause. “What happened to you, Armand? Blackmail? Robbing hotel safes? Since when are you so desperate that you’ll resort to such out-and-out villainy? I thought we had a code.”
It takes a moment for my words to sink in, but I can tell the exact moment they do. It’s evident from the way a grin splits Armand’s face. “Isn’t this rich?” he says, leaning back in his seat and eyeing me with interest. “This is a clear case of the pot calling the kettle a villain.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you don’t want me messing up your scheme, then I want in on it. I can help.” He hesitates and adds, “Well, not with the safe-robbing part. I don’t know what that’s about, but I’m disappointed in you. Burglary is so pedestrian.”
“I’m not the one robbing safes. You are.”
“Afraid not, little bird. Not my style.”
I can almost believe him. There’s a lack of finesse to that kind of crime, a sort of smash-and-grab quality that’s beneath a man of Armand’s experience.
“How much do you plan to take the boyfriend for?” he continues. “You’re a fool if you get less than a million.”
I bolt upright. “What? A million? Dollars?”
“You’re right. Nicholas Hartford the Third is a plump pigeon for the plucking.” He tucks the pocket watch away and rubs his hands greedily together. His palms are so dry, it almost sounds like the crackling of . . . what else? Flames. “If we play this correctly, we could get double that. How in love with you is he?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. Why do you think I came all this way?” His smile takes a decided turn toward a smirk. “Come on, Eleanor. Out with it. Are we dealing with Taj Mahal levels of devotion, or is it more of a Grace Kelly/Prince of Monaco sort of situation?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but it’s a lie. I only wish I didn’t know what he was talking about. It seems I wasn’t entirely correct when I suspected this man of coming all this way to blackmail me. Blackmail isn’t on his mind at all. If he’s imagining the palaces and kingdoms that Nicholas might be willing to lay at my feet in the name of love, what he’s after falls more along the lines of extortion. “It isn’t like that. We met on the job. We liked each other. We started dating. There’s nothing devious about it.”
“Of course not,” he agrees.
“I mean it, Armand. I’m not the woman you used to know. I don’t play the game anymore.”
He knows exactly what game I’m referring to, and he doesn’t believe me for a second. With a gaze that’s both insulting and appraising, his takes in every inch of my apparel—the corset-style belt and the flowy paisley dress it covers, the hair and makeup that haven’t changed, the jangling moonstone bracelets up my arm.
“So I didn’t update my wardrobe. Big deal.” I sound much more defensive than I’d like, but I can’t help it. I feel defensive. This is precisely why I refuse to let Nicholas pay for anything above and beyond the ordinary, why I’m willing to accept Vivian’s generosity only as long as it’s accompanied by her eccentric demands.
Past Eleanor would have seen Nicholas Hartford III and his family as a blank check for the cashing. In fact, Past Eleanor had seen him that way. I made an inordinate amount of money when I cleansed his house of the not-ghost that had been plaguing them. The moment we started dating, however, I put my foot down and my scruples up. I’m not that woman anymore. I make potions and cast spells and investigate paranormal crimes, but I don’t take advantage of people.
As if on cue, my phone rings. I attempt a discreet glance at the screen, but Armand leans over and reads it alongside me. Old Nick. It’s the name I used for Nicholas back when we first met, a playful nod to the devil inside him.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Armand asks with an arch curve to his brow.
I don’t want to, but getting hold of Nicholas while he’s traveling is always a difficult task. I might not get another chance to hear his voice for a while.
“You could give me some space,” I point out.
“I could.” He crosses his arms. “But I don’t think I will. Two million dollars, Eleanor. Any less than that and you’re wasting your talents.”
That remark sets the seal on what happens next. It would serve Armand right if I were to pick up the phone and divulge every last detail of his extortion plan while he sits and listens in. It will serve Armand much, much worse if I do things my way.
“Dearest, darling Nicholas!” I say in my best Grace Kelly impression. I ooze class and blond flawlessness, a hint of the siren underneath it all. “It’s been ages since I heard the sound of your delicious voice.”
As I hope, Nicholas picks up on the subtext almost immediately. I don’t call him Old Nick for nothing.
“Are you being held hostage right now?” he asks.
