by Amanda Quick
“You don’t have to remind me,” Velma said finally. She sounded gruff but worried. “Promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t want to lose another reporter. Whispers is a Hollywood gossip paper. We care about which actors are sleeping with which actresses. We don’t cover murder.”
“Except when one of our own is a victim.”
Velma heaved a sigh. “Agreed.”
“We need to follow up on this story, Boss.”
Ten days ago Peggy Hackett had drowned in her own bathtub. The death was called an accident. For years she had been a Hollywood legend, the gossip columnist of one of the biggest papers in L.A.
Peggy had also been a chain-smoking, martini-swilling reporter who, in her younger days, had been known to sleep with her sources—male and female—in order to get a story. As her looks began to fail, she had not been above using leverage, as she termed it, to convince people to talk.
In the end the drinking and hard living had exacted a toll. She was fired from the newspaper that had carried her column for so long.
Six months ago, she wound up on the doorstep of Whispers. Velma hired her. Peggy had gained some control over the drinking, but she was no longer young enough or pretty enough to seduce her old sources. Most of the insider secrets that she had once used as leverage had become old news involving faded stars. But she had been determined to rebuild her career.
It was Peggy who had convinced Velma to hire Irene in spite of her lack of experience. Glasson’s got the grit, Peggy had argued. That’s what matters. Reminds me of myself when I was just starting out. Hell, I can teach her everything else she needs to know.
Theirs had been an odd relationship, Irene thought. Jaded and afflicted with a chronic cough, Peggy had seemed to gain a new lease on life when she undertook the task of mentoring Irene. I owe you, Glasson, she had said more than once.
I owe you, Peggy. You were a friend when I needed one.
“All right,” Velma said. “Follow the story but just be damned careful.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” Irene promised.
But she was speaking to a dead line. Velma had hung up on her.
She set the receiver back in the cradle and gave Mildred Fordyce a bright smile.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I reversed the charges.”
Mildred turned around, beaming, and studied Irene with rapt attention. “So you’re the reporter who found the body of that poor woman last night.”
“I see you read Whispers.”
“Not until today,” Mildred said cheerfully. “But I picked up a copy at the newsstand this morning after I saw the front page of the local paper. Can’t rely on the Herald to give you the whole story, not when the story involves Oliver Ward’s hotel.”
She pushed a copy of the Burning Cove Herald across the desk, turning it around so that Irene could read the headline.
TRAGIC ACCIDENT AT LOCAL HOTEL
“Yes, I saw the piece that ran in the Herald,” Irene said. “You’re right. It’s not the whole story, not by a country mile. More like a small obituary notice.”
Mildred tapped the front page of the Herald. “According to this, that woman’s death was accidental. It says the cops think she slipped and fell on some wet tiles. Cracked her head and went into the pool. Probably unconscious so she drowned.”
“That does seem to be the prevailing theory at the moment,” Irene said.
Mildred got a speculative expression. “But the article in Whispers claims that there was someone else in the spa.”
“There was someone else there,” Irene said. “I didn’t get a good look but I heard him. Or her.”
“You couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman?”
“No. It was quite dark and sound gets distorted in that big, tiled room.”
“How do you know that person killed Gloria Maitland?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Irene admitted. “But I think that, under the circumstances, the situation warrants a full investigation.”
“You mean because Miss Maitland had an affair with Nick Tremayne? And because rumor has it that he ended things, and because Tremayne just happened to be staying at the Burning Cove Hotel at the time of the death?”
“I see you read my story very carefully.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mildred said.
“There was someone else in the spa last night,” Irene said. “I think that at the very least the police should find and interview that individual, don’t you?”
Mildred pursed her lips. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be that simple. This is Burning Cove.”
“You mean the authorities here are as corrupt as they are back in L.A.?”
“You didn’t hear me say that.” Mildred raised one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “According to the Herald, the lady who discovered the body was very upset. It says she was likely suffering from a case of shattered nerves.”
“Do I look like I’m suffering from a case of bad nerves?”
“No,” Mildred admitted. “What are you going to do next?”
“I’m here to cover a story,” Irene said. “That’s what I intend to do.”
“We’ll see. Good luck to you is all I can say.”
Chapter 9
“What is it with actors?” Earnest Ogden tossed the copy of Whispers onto his desk, got to his feet, and walked to the window. “They’re all the same. I swear, the hotter the star, the more likely he is to get into trouble. If only their brains matched their looks and their talent. Damned fools, all of them. Pardon my language, Miss Ross.”
Maxine Ross glanced up from her stenography notebook. “Of course, Mr. Ogden.”
As usual, she was cool and unruffled. It was, after all, not the first time she had heard the lament about temperamental, neurotic actors or a bit of rough language. She was a professional. She also happened to be one of the few females employed by the studio who had never had aspirations to become a star. She was unflappable, a steady, calming influence in a business built on overheated passions, dreams, ambitions, and too much money.
Glumly, Ogden contemplated the scene outside his second-floor office window. From where he stood he could see an array of large, enclosed soundstages, the commissary, and the wardrobe department. Beyond was the big backlot used for outdoor scenes. That week they were filming a western, a staple of the business. You could always sell westerns, Ogden thought. The façade of a frontier town had been set up—a saloon, the sheriff’s office, the bank that was destined to be robbed, and a general store—and all of it fake. That was the movie business for you. It sold illusions. He did love it so.
The whole establishment, from backlot to executive offices, was, in effect, a secure compound surrounded by high walls. Access was controlled through high, ornate gates manned by tough security guards. Theoretically the walls and the guards were there to protect the privacy of the stars and prevent interference with the filmmaking process. But sometimes it felt as if he worked for a fancy prison or a secret government agency.
He was a very well-paid nanny to a bunch of spoiled actors and actresses. He routinely saved prominent talents who went on drinking binges and got involved in hit-and-run incidents. He made morals charges against actors with a fondness for underage sex partners disappear. He paid off women who claimed a star had raped them or that they were pregnant with a star’s love child. He hushed up rumors of homosexuality. And so it went. He could fix just about any problem that came up.
“What’s done is done,” he said. “Nick Tremayne is very important to the studio, so obviously we will have to clean up this mess.”
“Yes, sir,” Maxine said.
She waited, pen poised above her notebook.
Ogden considered his options. He lived by three simple rules. Rule Number One: Identify the problem. Rule Number Two: Identify the source of the problem. Rule Number Three: Iden
tify the pressure points and apply whatever pressure was required to make a problem disappear.
Most of the time, money was all that was needed. Money persuaded cops and judges to look the other way. Money persuaded women to cease making accusations of rape. Money kept blackmailers quiet.
But sometimes more forceful measures were required.
“The problem, Miss Ross, is that a gossip columnist has published completely false rumors about Nick Tremayne in a cheap Hollywood scandal sheet.”
“Yes, Mr. Ogden.”
“The source of the problem would appear to be the reporter who wrote the piece, Irene Glasson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the editor of Whispers on the phone for me. It’s time that Velma Lancaster and I had a little chat.”
“Yes, Mr. Ogden. Will that be all, sir?”
“No. Tremayne’s personal assistant called again this morning. She told me that Tremayne is very nervous. Nervous stars are always a problem. They become even more temperamental and unpredictable than they usually are.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ogden turned around. “Get ahold of Hollywood Mack, too. Tell him to stand by. I might have a job for him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Maxine rose, unfazed by the instructions to contact a man who consorted with shady characters and known criminals. She left, closing the door very quietly.
Ogden went back to the window and watched a familiar limousine pull up to the big gate. The driver flashed a badge at the guard and was waved through. It wasn’t that long ago that the arrival of Stanley Bancroft, the star of Sea of Shadows, would have created a buzz of excitement on the grounds of the studio. But today few people bothered to look at the big car. Bancroft was not yet box office poison, but everyone knew that his career was fading fast.
All glory is fleeting, my friend, Ogden thought. A few years earlier, at the dawn of talking movies, Bancroft had displaced another leading man who, as it turned out, had a high, grating voice. That hadn’t been a problem during the heyday of the silents but it was a career-killer in the era of sound.
Ogden turned away from the window and sat down at his desk. He thought about the various steps he could take to control the damage that threatened one of the studio’s most important investments. After a while he came up with a plan.
This is why you get the big bucks and the corner office, pal.
But he knew that long ago it had ceased to be about the money. What he truly relished these days was the power that he wielded. It was more intoxicating than any drug.
Chapter 10
It was his job to protect the star. That’s what friends are for, Henry Oakes reminded himself.
He sat at the counter of the small café, hunched over a cup of coffee and a copy of Whispers, and contemplated the task that he had set for himself.
The problem was that Nick Tremayne did not understand he was in danger. Henry wanted to warn him but he didn’t dare reveal himself. The time was not right.
It should have been the studio’s job to protect Nick Tremayne, but whoever was in charge of his security was obviously not paying attention. The studio had missed the threat that the first Whispers reporter, Hackett, had presented. They had not dealt with the Gloria Maitland problem.
Henry had talked to both women. Tried to reason with them. But they had treated him as if he was crazy. Hackett had actually called him crazy to his face. It had reminded him of his mother’s words. You have to stop obsessing over movie stars, Henry. People will think you’re not right in the head.
One thing was certain—neither the Maitland woman nor the nosy newspaper reporter, Hackett, would call him crazy again. With them out of the picture, it had appeared that Nick Tremayne was safe, at least for a time.
But now another reporter from Whispers had arrived on the scene, and it was obvious that Irene Glasson posed a serious threat to the star.
Henry folded the copy of Whispers very carefully so that the terrible headline was concealed. Nick Tremayne was not the first star with whom he’d shared a special kind of friendship. Before he had developed the relationship with Tremayne, he was very close to another leading man. But the studio had come between them. Two goons found him outside the star’s home one night. They had hurt him badly, beaten him nearly senseless. They told him that if he ever got close to the star again, they would kill him. He believed them.
For a while he tried to avoid having any more close friendships with stars. But he couldn’t resist the movies, and one afternoon he’d gone to see Fortune’s Rogue. He had been transported by the power of Nick Tremayne’s acting. By the time he left the theater, he’d understood that he and Tremayne were destined to share a special relationship.
He’d also comprehended that this time he had to be careful. He could not allow the studio to discover his friendship with the star. Nick Tremayne would be forced to deny it. So, for Tremayne’s sake, he had remained in the shadows.
Someday, when the time was right, he would reveal himself to Tremayne, but until that day he would do what he was meant to do—he would protect his friend, the star.
Chapter 11
Irene was in her room, trying to come up with another hook for the next story, when Mildred Fordyce bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.
“Someone is here to see you, Miss Glasson.”
Oliver Ward. It had to be him. Irene couldn’t think of anyone else in Burning Cove who might want to speak with her. A little rush of anticipation swept through her. She told herself it was because a visit from Ward boded well for her story. Perhaps he had decided to give her a real quote, after all.
But a small, secret voice whispered that it wasn’t just the prospect of getting a useful quote that made her hurry to the door. The truth was that she was very, very curious to see Oliver Ward again. It would be interesting to find out whether her initial impressions of him held up in the light of day or if she had allowed her imagination to mislead her last night.
She opened the door and leaned out into the upstairs hall. “I’ll be right down, Mrs. Fordyce.”
She closed the door again and hurried back across the room to check her image in the mirror. After returning to the inn last night, she had made the phone call to Velma and then gone upstairs. She had been energized and feeling jumpy, but she took the time to pin several big curls into her damp hair before collapsing onto the bed. Now she was very glad she had done so. At least she no longer looked like she’d been dunked in a pool. She certainly wouldn’t be mistaken for Ginger Rogers or Katharine Hepburn, but she looked presentable with her hair brushed back off her face and tucked behind her ears. The soft, easy waves fell to her shoulders.
She put on some lipstick, took a deep breath, and went out into the hall.
It wasn’t Oliver Ward who was waiting in the lobby.
A tall, thin woman in her early twenties looked up as Irene came down the stairs. The newcomer wore a severely cut brown suit with a narrow, calf-length skirt and a tight jacket that did little to enhance her figure. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and pinned in a tightly rolled set of curls that started at one ear and looped down around the back of her neck to end at the other ear. It was a very businesslike hairstyle. She clutched a notebook as though it were a life preserver.
Irene’s first thought was that the woman would have been quite pretty if she didn’t look so anxious.
“Miss Irene Glasson?” the woman asked.
The voice fit with the rest of the image—thin and nervous.
“I’m Irene Glasson.” Irene tried to sound cool and professional. She was a journalist now. The new role was not so very different from her previous career as a private secretary. Success in both fields, she had discovered, depended on organizational skills and the ability to think on one’s feet. “What can I do for you, Miss—?”
The woman looked almost pathetically r
elieved.
“Picton, Claudia Picton. I’m Mr. Tremayne’s personal assistant. I wonder if I might have a word with you? It’s very important.”
“What is this about?” Irene asked. But she was sure she knew the answer. Excitement splashed through her.
Claudia cast a quick, uneasy look at Mildred and then lowered her voice. “I’m afraid it’s a private matter.”
“Of course,” Irene said. “My room is too small. There’s only one chair. Let’s go out on the patio. We can talk there.”
Ignoring Mildred’s disappointed expression, she went quickly toward the glass-paned doors that opened onto a small garden. Claudia followed, practically trotting.
Irene motioned toward two green wrought iron chairs shaded by an awning. Claudia hesitated and then perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Irene sat down across from her.
“How did you find me, Miss Picton?”
Claudia flinched and then reddened. She made a visible effort to square her already rigid shoulders.
“Someone at the studio gave me your name,” she said.
Irene nodded. “Of course. That explains it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re here because you were assigned to handle Nick Tremayne’s little public relations problem. Some fixer at the studio made a phone call to the local police and offered a nice gratuity in exchange for the address of the reporter who broke the story of Gloria Maitland’s death. Obviously the helpful local policeman obliged.”
Claudia’s jaw tensed. “I did get a call from someone who represents the studio. But I’m here because Mr. Tremayne, himself, asked me to speak with you.”
“Did he? That’s very interesting. What is he going to offer me in exchange for dropping the story?”
“You don’t understand. He wants to give you an exclusive one-on-one interview.”
“That’s very generous of him. Why would he do that?”
“Mr. Tremayne feels there has been a grave misunderstanding concerning his prior association with Miss Maitland. He would like to clarify the nature of his relationship with her.”