Cold amusement flickered in his expression. “Do I look like I’m about to fall asleep?”
“No, but that’s because you’re using a low level of psi to overcome the effects of sleep deprivation. That trick will work for a while, but eventually it’s all going to catch up with you. Sooner or later you’re going to crash, and when you do, you’ll crash hard.”
“I’ll worry about getting some sleep after you find my lamp.”
She sighed. “Why is it that no one ever takes my good advice when I have so much of it to give? That’s why I became a private investigator instead of a dream therapist, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“When I was younger I planned to get a degree in psychology and go into dream therapy work. But I found out soon enough that it would be terribly frustrating. Oh, sure, people are willing to pay for good advice, but they won’t follow it.”
“I hope you’re a better PI than you are a therapist.”
That hurt, but she refused to let it show. She straightened a little and picked up the pen again. “I told you, I’m good at what I do. Give me your contact information. I’ve got another case that I’ll be winding up tonight, but I’ll start the search for your lamp immediately. I’ll be in touch within a couple of days.”
“You sound very confident.”
“Are you kidding?” She gave what she hoped was a ladylike sniff. “A paranormal artifact created by the alchemist Nicholas Winters? If I can’t locate it within forty- eight hours or find out what happened to it, I’ll go back to school and get that degree in psychology.”
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6
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT EVENING ROSE STALKED INTO THE office, a pizza box in her hands. Raindrops glittered like ebony diamonds on her long, black raincoat. Rose always stalked rather than walked. Chloe thought it probably had something to do with the two-inch platform soles of the steel-buckled, black leather boots she wore.
“Dinner time,” Rose declared. “You’ve been at that computer or on the phone ever since Mr. Winters left. All you’ve had is a few cups of tea. Got to keep up your energy, boss.”
“Thanks.” Chloe studied the e-mail that had just arrived in her in-box. “I am feeling a little hungry, now that I think about it.”
Hector trotted across the room to greet Rose. He sat down directly in front of her, blocking her path, and gazed at the pizza box with an expression that, in a human, would have indicated that the carton contained a winning lottery ticket.
“Don’t worry—there’s enough for three,” Rose told him. She set the box on Chloe’s desk and took off her raincoat. “How’s the investigation going?”
“Let’s just say it’s been interesting.” Chloe swiveled around in her chair. “And getting more interesting by the minute.”
Rose hung up the raincoat and sat down in the client chair. “Find the lamp yet?”
“I think so. Got a solid lead on it hours ago from Aunt Beatrice.”
“Your relative who runs that antiques shop in Los Angeles? The one that specializes in old movie star memorabilia?”
“Right.”
Beatrice Harper did a thriving business in original movie posters signed by famous stars, rare film footage, and other artifacts associated with Hollywood’s golden era. From long-lost outtakes of Marlene Dietrich, Cary Grant or Joan Crawford to one-of-a-kind Art Deco cigarette lighters guaranteed to have been used by Humphrey Bogart, Beatrice could find it for you.
Mostly Beatrice found such valuables in a certain workshop located in Redondo Beach. The shop was operated by Clive and Evelyn Harper. The pair had a talent for “discovering” vintage original film clips that had been lost since the 1930s. Their daughters, Rhonda and Alison, were true artists: Rhonda produced an unlimited number of “original” posters; Alison forged the stars’ signatures.
Beatrice went to others in the family for the cigarette lighters or the odd piece of furniture that had belonged to William Holden or Gloria Swanson. The reproductions were so good they could pass for the real thing. So that’s what Beatrice did. The arrangement worked well for everyone concerned.
Chloe studied her notes. “The last probable owner of the lamp is Drake Stone. All indications are that he still owns it.”
“You’re kidding.” Rose opened the pizza box. “Are you talking about that old rocker Drake Stone?”
“Right.”
Rose removed a slice of the vegetarian pizza and gave it to Hector. “I didn’t realize he was still alive.”
“There may be some room for debate on the subject.” Chloe helped herself to a slice from the box. “After all, he lives in Las Vegas. Still performs six nights a week, two shows a night. You know what they say, old stars never die; they just go to Vegas.”
“Huh.” Rose slid a slice of pizza onto a napkin. Her blue eyes, heavily outlined in black, seemed to soften. “I remember my Mom used to like Drake Stone. There was this one song she loved. Played it over and over when I was a kid.”
Chloe tried to conceal her surprise. Rose rarely talked about her childhood, which had come to a shattering end the night her parents were murdered. She had been fifteen, and she was the one who had found the bodies. She had gone to live with her aunt, a divorced mother already struggling with two kids. The aunt had tried to do what she saw as her duty, but a third mouth, especially one that belonged to a traumatized teenager, had not been welcome. There had not been enough love and affection to go around, let alone money.
Rose had bailed a few months later, having concluded that the streets were friendlier than her aunt’s home. She had managed to survive nearly six months out in the cold, relying on shelters and her natural intuitive talents, before she fetched up at Harper Investigations. Chloe had found her in the same place she later discovered Hector: scrounging out of the garbage containers in the alley.
“By any chance was the name of your mother’s favorite song ‘Blue Champagne’?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Rose brightened. She hummed a few bars. “How did you know?”
Chloe tapped the computer screen. “According to my research it was Stone’s first and only real megahit. That was over thirty years ago. But it was enough to make him famous. It’s his signature song. He still does it at every performance. Evidently the women in the audience still line up for a kiss after the show.”