Page 51 of The Other Lady Vanishes

“That boat was starting to cost more than it made in profits. Besides, times are changing.”

“You and I have undergone a few changes, too.”

“Yes,” Luther said. “But I’m settled here in Burning Cove. I like this town. It suits me. What are you going to do now that you’ve sold your business?”

“You’re starting to sound like Adelaide. She thinks I need a real job.”

“She may be right,” Luther said. “We both know you’ve been drifting ever since Elizabeth died. You sold the business. You got rid of thebig house in L.A. Damn it, you’re living in a hotel in Pasadena. What kind of a life is that?”

“The Huntington is a very nice hotel.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’ve got a private bungalow. There’s a pool. Room service. What more can a man ask for?”

“You can’t live in a hotel forever.”

“Why not? You seem to be doing just fine living on top of a nightclub.”

“That’s different. I own the place. You’re living as if you were still in the import-export business, always prepared to pack a bag and travel halfway around the world at a moment’s notice. Those days are over, Jake.”

Jake exhaled slowly. “I know. But I’ve got to recover that diary before I can think about what I want to do next.”

He lined up the tee shot and sent the ball sailing down the long fairway, straight toward the green.

“How the hell do youdothat?” Luther said. “You should have become a professional.”

“Too hard on the nerves,” Jake said. “Mine are already exhausted, remember?”

“Yeah, I did hear something about that.”

Chapter 27

The Paradise Club lived up to its reputation as an eternally midnight realm steeped in intimate shadows and dark glamour. The velvet-covered booths were arranged in semicircles that rose in tiers above the crowded dance floor. Small candles burned on each table, giving off a warm, flickering light that enhanced the drama and encouraged flirtation. Cigarettes sparked in the darkness.

The members of the orchestra wore white dinner jackets and black bow ties. A large, mirrored sphere hung over the dance floor, its faceted surface scattering light across the dancers, who appeared to be gliding and swaying through a storm of sparkling jewels.

The music blended with the hum of low-voiced conversations and the occasional ripples of laughter. The French doors that lined one entire side of the room were open, allowing the night air to cool the space and help dissipate the cigarette smoke.

“How will we know if Paxton is here tonight?” Adelaide asked.

She and Jake were seated at a table that was in the last tier of booths. She was well aware that it was not considered a prime location, but ithad two major advantages: It provided privacy while simultaneously allowing a view of the dance floor.

She was sure they were the only ones in the club who were not drinking cocktails. They had both ordered sparkling water. They had a long evening ahead of them. Becoming intoxicated was not on the agenda.

“According to Luther, Paxton always sits at Westlake’s table,” Jake said.

“Yes, but what if she doesn’t show up?”

“I was told that her assistant called earlier to make sure that Miss Westlake’s table would be ready, as usual.”

“All right. How will we know when she arrives? Will Mr. Pell send someone to inform us?”

Jake was amused. “You’ll know when she arrives the same way you know when she enters the tearoom.”

“In other words, she’ll make an entrance,” Adelaide said.

“Management will ensure that she does. The maître d’ will escort her and whoever she’s with to one of the booths at the edge of the dance floor.”