by Amanda Quick
“That should be interesting. Naturally I’ll be delighted to conduct an interview with Mr. Tremayne, provided he understands that everything will be on the record.”
“I’ll make sure he knows that before he meets with you.” Claudia paused. “You do realize that Mr. Tremayne was nowhere near the spa last night at the time of Miss Maitland’s death.”
Irene caught her breath but managed to maintain what she thought was a serviceable air of unconcern.
“Is that so?” she said.
“He was at the Paradise Club,” Claudia said. “It’s a popular nightspot here in Burning Cove. He was seen by any number of people. The police will be able to confirm that if they feel it necessary to do so.”
Damn, Irene thought. That was not good news.
“In that case, there is no reason for Mr. Tremayne to be concerned about an investigation into the death of Miss Maitland, is there?” she said.
“I hope you will try to understand his situation,” Claudia said. “Mr. Tremayne has no reason to be concerned about an appearance of guilt. But he and Miss Maitland were . . . acquainted.”
“Well acquainted, apparently. Can you confirm that they had a romantic liaison?”
“No, nothing like that. Mr. Tremayne considered Miss Maitland to be a friend, that’s all. And because of that friendship, he doesn’t want to see her reputation impugned.”
“Miss Maitland is dead. She is no longer concerned about her reputation.”
“I would hope you would consider her family’s feelings in this matter.”
“She has no close family,” Irene said. “I checked.”
Claudia leaped to her feet. She was thoroughly flustered now. “I think it would be best if Mr. Tremayne, himself, explained the nature of his association with Miss Maitland.”
“I agree. I’ll look forward to the interview. When and where?”
“Mr. Tremayne asked me to invite you to meet with him in his villa at the Burning Cove Hotel.”
Irene almost smiled. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea under the circumstances. Appearances, you know.”
Claudia froze. It was clear that she had not expected the invitation to be refused.
“You don’t want the interview?” she asked.
“I want the interview but I would prefer to conduct it somewhere other than Nick Tremayne’s private hotel suite.”
Claudia looked stricken. “I don’t understand. Surely you aren’t afraid of Mr. Tremayne?”
“Let’s just say that I would be more comfortable if the interview were conducted out in the open. I’d prefer a location where there will be other people around. That way if Mr. Tremayne tries to threaten me or offer a bribe, I can round up a couple of witnesses.”
Claudia was torn between shock and outrage. “That’s ridiculous. Mr. Tremayne just wants to tell you his side of the story.”
“Which I will be only too happy to hear. I suggest we meet for coffee at one of the local cafés.”
“I’m afraid that would be difficult to arrange. Mr. Tremayne is famous. He can’t just walk into a café and expect to go unrecognized. He would soon be surrounded by a crowd of people wanting his autograph. The reason he stays at the Burning Cove Hotel is precisely because he knows he can expect that his privacy will be respected.”
Irene shrugged. “All right. I’ll meet with him at the hotel but not in his villa. I want a more public location. And keep in mind that it might not be easy to arrange for me to get through the front gate of the Burning Cove. I understand management has a strict policy when it comes to members of the press. Evidently journalists are not allowed on the premises.”
“I’m sure the hotel management will make an exception for Mr. Tremayne,” Claudia said. “Would this afternoon be convenient for you?”
“Certainly.”
“I suggest three o’clock. You and Mr. Tremayne could meet for tea in the Garden Room at the Burning Cove Hotel.”
“I’ll be there at three. If you don’t see me, it will be because I couldn’t get past the guards at the gate.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that end of things. Thank you, Miss Glasson. You won’t regret this, I promise you.”
Irene gave her a cool smile. “I’m sure you didn’t expect me to turn down an interview with Nick Tremayne.”
Claudia looked pathetically grateful. “To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. Miss Maitland’s death has been so upsetting for everyone, especially Mr. Tremayne. Three o’clock.”
Claudia turned and fled back into the lobby.
Irene waited a moment before she opened her handbag and took out her notebook. She unclipped the pencil and started to jot down her impressions of Claudia Picton. Nervous. Anxious. Scared?
I know how you feel, Claudia Picton. I’ve been nervous, anxious, and scared for the past four months.
She had driven some three thousand miles, traded her prize Packard for a far more anonymous car, changed her name, changed her career, and invented a new life. But she was still looking over her shoulder, still listening for footsteps in the night, still jumping at shadows.
Finding another body last night certainly hadn’t helped soothe her nerves. Three women whose lives had touched hers were dead within four months: Helen Spencer, Peggy Hackett, and Gloria Maitland.
Logic and common sense told her that the deaths of Peggy Hackett and Gloria Maitland could not possibly be connected to the grisly murder of Helen Spencer. But logic and common sense did little to allay the fear that churned deep inside her. It was fear of a link between the three dead women that had caused her to become obsessed with finding out the truth about Peggy Hackett’s death.
So be it, she thought. She had run as far as she could, all the way to the opposite edge of the country. There was nowhere else to run. She had to discover the truth for the sake of her own sanity.
A large shadow fell across the open page of her notebook.
“I doubt that she’ll last very long,” Oliver said.
Irene was so startled she nearly levitated out of her chair. She took a sharp breath and looked up. Oliver was standing slightly behind her, his cane gripped tightly in one hand.
She should have heard him approach, she thought. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the tapping of his cane or the hitch in his stride.
She glanced down and saw that there was a thick rubber cap on the end of the cane. That no doubt explained why she hadn’t heard it thumping on the paving stones of the patio. Oliver had moved very quietly for a man with a bad leg. The word stealthy came to mind.
He was dressed in a pair of excellently tailored trousers, a crisply pressed shirt, and a lightweight linen jacket cut in the drape style. The fashion had become very popular because the design emphasized the width of a man’s upper chest and shoulders. But Oliver didn’t need the illusion created by a good tailor, she thought. His shoulders would have looked good with or without the jacket.
It occurred to her that the style had something else going for it. The slightly angled drape of the fabric above the waistline was far less restrictive than the older style, which fit the body quite snugly. The ease of movement allowed by the new fashion probably appealed to a man who needed to use a cane.
“I didn’t hear you,” she said.
She knew the comment sounded like a thinly veiled accusation.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Do you mind if I join you?”
“No,” she said.
She slipped the pencil into her notebook and closed the cover.
He eased into the chair that Claudia had just vacated. Irene watched the small action carefully, trying to determine if he really did need the cane or if he used it as a prop. As if an otherwise healthy specimen of manhood would deliberately go about with a fake limp, she thought. I’m s
uspicious of everyone these days.
“Was that shorthand you were using to record your notes?” Oliver asked.
She tensed. “Every reporter develops his or her own version of shorthand.”
“I know, but I’ve seen notes made by other journalists. They aren’t nearly so neat.” Oliver smiled faintly. “Not so impossible to decipher, either. I’m guessing that only another trained stenographer could read your notes.”
He was fishing for information about her.
“That’s the thing about a private code, isn’t it?” she said. “No one else can read it. What did you mean when you said that Claudia Picton wouldn’t last very long?”
“I assume you’ve met other studio publicists and assistants?”
“Sure. Usually on the phone, though.”
“Still, you must know what they’re like.”
“They’re your best friends when they want coverage for their stars and your worst enemies if you don’t print the kind of coverage they want.”
Oliver’s mouth curved faintly in wry amusement. “Exactly. Reporters aren’t the only ones who have to deal with publicists and assistants. The hotel has to handle them all the time.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’ve had a lot of experience with the species.”
“The appeal of the Burning Cove Hotel is based in part on the fact that it has become a fashionable retreat for famous film stars. Ambitious publicists and assistants want their actors and actresses to be seen checking in, but they don’t want photographers to catch the stars in compromising positions. The result is that my security staff exists primarily to make sure reporters and photographers don’t get on the grounds without my permission.”
“Which brings you to me.”
“Yes, it does.” Oliver watched her with unreadable eyes. “I couldn’t help but overhear that last part of your conversation with Miss Picton. You have an appointment to meet with Tremayne at my hotel this afternoon.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve been invited to conduct an exclusive interview with Tremayne over tea in something called the Garden Room. Will you allow me on the grounds, Mr. Ward?”
“You’re welcome to do the interview in the Garden Room. But I wouldn’t be too hopeful of getting anything useful out of Tremayne, if I were you. He’ll do his best to charm you. I understand he has a real talent for that sort of thing.”
“I’m sure he’ll try to dazzle me, but I’m not naïve, Mr. Ward. I fully anticipate that Nick Tremayne will try to convince me that his former girlfriend’s death was nothing more than a tragic accident.”
Oliver nodded, satisfied. “A word of warning. He really is a very talented actor.”
“I know. I saw him in Fortune’s Rogue.”
“I see. Well, in that case, good luck with the interview.”
“So you will allow me into your hotel.”
“Yes, Miss Glasson. You are free to come and go at will. All I ask in return is that you keep me updated on whatever you learn.”
She thought about that for a few seconds and then nodded. “Fair enough, so long as you let me know whatever you find out about Gloria Maitland’s death.”
“Agreed.” Oliver looked amused. “Are you saying that you trust me, Miss Glasson?”
She smiled her reassuring reporter’s smile, the one Peggy had taught her. Peggy had called it the just-the-two-of-us-chatting smile.
“No more than you trust me, Mr. Ward,” she said. “However, as you pointed out last night, at the moment we do seem to share some similar interests.”
“One of which is the security of my hotel. This morning I went over events with the head of my security department. We retraced your steps. As a rule, the spa chamber is locked at night, but there was no sign of forced entry. I assume the side door was unlocked when you arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Who unlocked it for you?”
“I assumed Miss Maitland unlocked it. She chose the spa as the location for our meeting. She said it would be empty at that hour of the night. Would it have been difficult for her to get her hands on the key?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Oliver said. He sounded grim. “There are several keys to the spa because various departments have reason to go in at various times—housekeeping stocks the robes and towels, the maintenance people have a key, and several members of the spa staff have keys.”
“In other words, someone who wanted to borrow a key for a short time could probably figure out how to do it.”
“Yes.” Oliver hesitated briefly. “Something else has come up. My security people talked to the housekeeping staff.”
“Why?”
“The maids are one of the front lines when it comes to hotel security. No one ever notices them.”
“I see what you mean,” Irene said.
“One of the housekeepers witnessed what was evidently a very hot quarrel between Tremayne and Miss Maitland the day before Miss Maitland died. The maid didn’t catch all the details, but Tremayne appeared to be threatening Maitland.”
“Very interesting,” Irene said.
Oliver watched her intently for an endless moment.
“What?” she finally asked.
“There is one other possibility that should be considered.”
Irene did not move. “Are you about to suggest that I stole the key?”
“It did occur to me.”
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t take it.”
“For what it’s worth,” Oliver said, “I’m inclined to believe you.”
“Really? Why?”
“As far as I can tell, you had no motive to kill Gloria Maitland.”
“All I wanted from her was information.”
“As I said, I’m inclined to believe you.”
“Be still my beating heart.”
Oliver stretched out his bad leg and contemplated her with an unreadable expression. A shiver of knowing iced her nerves. He was waiting for her to make some small slip.
“I’m sure you’ve heard that Nick Tremayne has a fairly good alibi for last night,” she said. “Miss Picton told me he was at a nightclub here in Burning Cove.”
Oliver nodded. “The Paradise Club.”
“You checked?”
“Last night, after you left.”
“Miss Picton said that Tremayne spent the evening there and that several people saw him.”
“People who had been drinking heavily all evening are not the most reliable witnesses. But, yes, it seems he was at the club for at least some portion of the night. Would you care to talk to someone who can provide more details?”
“Of course.” She raised her brows. “I take it you have a witness in mind?”
“The owner of the club, Luther Pell.”
“I would definitely like to ask him a few questions, although he has no reason to tell me the truth.”
“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
She smiled a thin smile. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Including you.”
It was a statement, not a question. It sent another little chill through her.
“When can I talk to Luther Pell?” she said.
“He invited us to have dinner with him this evening at his club.”
“Us?”
“Like you, I have a few questions for him myself. I realize you don’t believe me, Miss Glasson, but I can promise that I want the truth as badly as you do, if not more so. I am willing to go to great lengths to protect the privacy of my guests, but I won’t protect a killer.”
“Even if it means a full-blown scandal?”
To her surprise, Oliver smiled.
“My guests claim they want privacy,” he said. “But the truth is, their careers depend on making headlines in papers like Whispers. Properly managed, there is nothing like an interesting scandal t
o boost the career of an aspiring actor or actress. Does wonders for my hotel business, too.”
“We’re talking about a scandal involving the murder of a woman who is said to have had an affair with a fast-rising star.”
“Which makes it a very interesting scandal.”
“That you intend to see is properly managed.”
“I had to reinvent myself after a disastrous conclusion to my previous career, Miss Glasson. Reinvention is an expensive process. I survived it once. I don’t intend to start over a third time if I can avoid it. So, yes, I’m going to try to manage the scandal.”
“Do you really think I’ll let you dictate the story?” she asked.
“Without my help, you won’t get any story at all.”
“Is that so?”
“Without my assistance, this town might as well be a fortified castle, as far as you’re concerned,” Oliver said. “They will lock the gates, pull up the drawbridge, and fill the moat with alligators.”
“And in exchange for my accepting your help, you will try to control what I write.”
“I may make a few suggestions from time to time,” Oliver admitted.
“And if you don’t like what I write, you’ll withdraw your assistance.”
“I thought I made it clear, we share the same goal. I want the killer found.”
“Why?”
“Because the Burning Cove Hotel belongs to me. I protect what is mine. No one gets away with committing murder on the premises.”
“No exceptions?” she asked.
His smile was as cold as his eyes. “One exception.”
And suddenly she knew.
“You,” she said.
“Me.”
She took a short, tight breath.
“But you didn’t kill Gloria Maitland,” she said.
“What makes you so sure I didn’t murder her?”
“You’re a magician. You would have done a better job of it.”
Chapter 12
Nick Tremayne’s smile was dazzling, a combination of masculine heat and smooth assurance. His eyes were as seductive in real life as they were on the screen. He wore an elegantly cut navy blazer and white linen trousers. His white shirt was accented with a beautifully knotted striped tie. He looked as if he had just stepped off his private yacht.