The Girl Who Knew Too Much

by Amanda Quick

  “That’s a relief. I just hope nothing shrank in the wash. The trousers were new.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine. Everything at the Burning Cove Hotel is first-class. And I must say the dress is lovely.”

  “What dress?”

  “An adorable cocktail frock. Wait until you see it.”

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “No. I asked George, the man who delivered the clothes, if there was some mistake but he assured me there wasn’t. Said it was a gift from the hotel management. I suppose it’s a sort of apology.”

  “An apology? For what?”

  “For nearly getting murdered on the hotel grounds, of course. I expect that the hotel management wanted to compensate you.”

  “Or bribe me in an attempt to persuade me to go easy on the follow-up stories.”

  “Oh, no, dear.” Mrs. Fordyce was clearly shocked. “I can’t imagine that Oliver Ward would resort to bribery.”

  “I’m not so sure. Is it an expensive-looking dress?”

  “Oh, yes. Silk, the real thing, not rayon. And the shoes are adorable.”

  “There are shoes, too?”

  “Yes, dear, and a divine little wrap. It can get chilly here in Burning Cove after the sun goes down. All in all, very nice compensation, I’d say. Not worth nearly getting killed for, of course. Still—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fordyce. I’m going to hang up and call my editor now.”

  “Good-bye, dear.”

  Irene put the phone down and eyed the closed door. In the end she decided that she would deal with the dress bribe after she dealt with Velma.

  She got the operator on the line, gave her the number, and reversed the charges. If Velma refused to accept the collect call, it would be a strong indication that there wasn’t much of an emergency.

  Velma accepted the charges immediately.

  “Your landlady called an hour ago,” she said.

  “Why would Mrs. Drysdale do that? I’m up to date with my rent.”

  “She said that someone broke into your apartment earlier today. She was out at the time.”

  “What?”

  “She was very upset. She said the place was ransacked.”

  Irene sat down hard in the big desk chair. Panic rolled through her in a wave that threatened to choke her. Automatically she touched her handbag, reassuring herself that the notebook was safely tucked inside. She never let it out of her sight.

  But if Helen Spencer’s killer had found her, he would have no way of knowing that she never left the notebook behind. He would assume that she had done what most people did with a valuable item—stashed it in a secret hiding place.

  She looked down at her hand and was shocked to see that it was trembling ever so slightly.

  Calm down. Don’t panic. Think.

  Mentally she cataloged the few possessions she had acquired in the months that she had been living in Los Angeles. There was very little of value—her clothes, the new radio, some inexpensive furniture, and the kitchen things.

  “Was anything taken?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Drysdale didn’t think so but how would she know?” Velma said. “She told me that she called the cops. An officer filled out a report but there’s not much chance that anyone will be picked up. I told Mrs. Drysdale that it was probably just a random burglary, but between you and me, I’m not so sure.”

  Neither am I, Irene thought. She was suddenly very glad that she had refilled the gas tank when she arrived in Burning Cove. She wouldn’t have to waste time stopping at a filling station. She could pick up her things at the Cove Inn, throw them into the car, and leave. Time enough to decide on a destination after she got on the road.

  Unaware of the turmoil she had created with her news, Velma continued speaking.

  “I think we have to consider the possibility that the break-in at your apartment is connected to your Maitland story,” she said. “I had a call from Tremayne’s studio—Ernie Ogden himself.”

  The name rang a faint bell but it took Irene a couple of beats to make the connection.

  “Peggy mentioned him a couple of times,” she said.

  “No surprise. He’s the fixer at Tremayne’s studio. Rumor has it that he and Peggy had an affair back in the day. He told me he’d heard that I’d hired her and he appreciated it. I think he was genuinely fond of her, which is probably why he cut me some slack today. Regardless, he was not happy.”

  Irene gripped the telephone cord. “Did he threaten you?”

  “Let’s just say he made it clear that it would be very unwise of me to print another story about Tremayne—not unless Tremayne actually gets himself arrested for murder. What I’m getting at is that it wouldn’t surprise me if Ogden paid someone to go through your apartment.”

  Relief crashed through Irene. She started to breathe again.

  “A private detective, maybe,” she said, seizing on the possibility. “Looking for something to use as leverage against us. Well, against me, at any rate.”

  “Exactly,” Velma said. “It’s the timing of the break-in that makes me think someone from the studio is responsible. We ran the Maitland story this morning. I got a telephone call warning me off the story a couple hours later. And then, early this afternoon, someone broke into your apartment. It all adds up.”

  “You’re right,” Irene said. “Probably not a coincidence.”

  There was a small hesitation on the other end of the line.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you seem damned cheerful for someone who’s just been told that a burglar broke into her apartment,” Velma said.

  “I’m looking on the bright side. The studio is clearly nervous. Here’s the good news, Boss. I just concluded a one-on-one interview with Tremayne—at his request, no less.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed. I assume he went heavy on the charm.”

  “So thick you could have cut it with a knife.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “When the charm didn’t work, he made some threats. Peggy said that was typical behavior for stars. They figure their studios will take care of them.”

  “They’re right,” Velma said, her voice very dry. “If the star is important to the studio’s bottom line. Tremayne is certainly a box office draw now, but he’s no Clark Gable or Gary Cooper. Not yet, at any rate.”

  “We’re onto something here. I can feel it.”

  “I agree,” Velma said. “The story of a leading man who murdered a lover and the reporter who uncovered the crime could make or break my paper. But we’ve got to get some hard proof before we run any more stories that feature Tremayne’s name.”

  “I’m working on it. As a matter of fact, I’ve got an interview scheduled with Luther Pell tonight.”

  “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He owns the Paradise Club here in Burning Cove.”

  “Damn. That Luther Pell. Be careful. Pell has always managed to keep his hands clean but they say he’s got mob connections from Reno to New Jersey.”

  Irene glanced at the storm-filled paintings on the wall. They looked as if they had been inspired by violence.

  “Tremayne claims he was at the Paradise Club when Gloria Maitland was murdered,” she said. “I want to find out if his alibi is solid.”

  “Pell agreed to talk to you about one of his customers? Got to say I’m damned surprised.”

  Irene glanced at the closed door. “Oliver Ward, the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel, told me that Pell was his friend. Ward made the arrangements.”

  “That’s even more interesting. How did you convince Ward to cooperate?”

  “He thinks he can control the story if he gets involved.”

  “He’s probably right, damn it. He’s got a few connections, too.”

  “I think Ward is serious about wanting t
o find out what happened to Maitland. He doesn’t like the idea that someone thought he could get away with murder in the hotel. He took it as a personal affront or something.”

  “Huh.” Velma cleared her throat. “Sorry to pry, but I’ve got to ask you if there’s any chance the burglar might have found something in your place that the studio can use to silence you?”

  Irene tightened her grip on her handbag. “No. There wasn’t anything for the bastard to find.”

  “That’s a relief. All right, stay on the story, at least for now. Let me know if you get anything solid. Until then we’ll keep our heads down. Let Ogden think that his threats are working. And Glasson?”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “Be careful. Good reporters are hard to find. I don’t want to have to replace you.”

  “You think I’m a good reporter, Boss?”

  “Peggy said you had what it takes. Just be damned careful.”

  “I will. Don’t worry, Boss.”

  The line went dead. Irene put down the receiver and sat quietly for a moment, contemplating the very convincing illusion that was Oliver’s office.

  What are you concealing behind the scenes, Magician?

  She got to her feet, crossed the room, and yanked open the door.

  “What’s up with the dress and the shoes?” she said.

  Oliver was standing in front of Elena’s desk, reading a typewritten letter. He looked at Irene.

  “Mrs. Firebrace in housekeeping suggested that you might not have anything to wear to the Paradise Club this evening.”

  “It’s just an interview,” Irene said. “If I wear a cocktail dress and heels, people will get the idea that I’m your date for the evening.”

  “That’s the plan,” Oliver said.

  “What plan is that?”

  “After we are seen together at Pell’s club, people will assume that the management of the Burning Cove Hotel does not consider you a threat to the hotel or its guests.”

  He had a point, Irene thought. There was, of course, the very real possibility that people would think she had allowed herself to be seduced by the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel, but so what? As far as everyone in town was concerned she was just a small-time reporter chasing a Hollywood gossip story for a third-rate paper. Pretending to be Oliver’s date for the evening might be a very useful cover.

  “It could work,” she said.

  Elena turned away very quickly and concentrated on inserting a blank sheet of paper into her typewriter. But Irene was pretty sure she had caught the glint of amusement in the secretary’s dark eyes.

  “It’s all about creating an illusion,” Oliver said. “One that will distract the attention of the audience from the real purpose of your visit to the club. It’s called misdirection.”

  “I get to be the magician’s assistant for the evening, is that it?”

  It was Oliver’s turn to look amused.

  “That’s it,” he said.

  Chapter 14

  Oliver Ward was waiting for her in the lobby of the Cove Inn. Irene paused at the top of the stairs and allowed herself a few seconds to deal with the impact he made on her senses.

  He wore a white dinner jacket, a white shirt, a perfectly knotted black bow tie, and dark trousers with the ease of a man accustomed to formal attire. No surprise there, she thought. He had, after all, spent his first career onstage.

  The aura of cool, controlled power and masculine grace should have been undercut by the ebony cane, but the effect was the opposite. The cane served notice that Oliver was a survivor.

  She started down the stairs, intensely aware of a little rush of heat and a pulse-quickening flicker of excitement. She reminded herself that she was not going out on a date. She was working on an assignment. Nevertheless, she was suddenly very, very glad that she was wearing the clothes that had been given to her as compensation for her ordeal in the spa.

  The dress was fashioned of midnight blue silk cut on the bias so that it glided over her curves and flared out around her ankles whenever she took a step. Combined with the stacked-heel evening sandals and the light wrap, the overall effect hit all the right notes—California casual infused with a subtle touch of Hollywood glamour.

  Dresses this lovely and this expensive were called gowns, Irene thought. It was a fantasy gown designed for a fantasy evening in the fantasy world that was Burning Cove. When she got the dress home to her little apartment in L.A., it would go to the back of her closet because she would probably never have another occasion to wear it.

  She reached the foot of the stairs and paused because she could have sworn she saw some heat in Oliver’s eyes. He smiled and took her arm.

  “I see the dress fits,” he said.

  Mrs. Fordyce folded her arms on the front desk and regarded Irene with an appraising expression.

  “It’s lovely on you, dear,” she said. “But your handbag rather spoils the effect. Where is the little beaded bag that came with the dress and the shoes?”

  Irene tightened her grip on her handbag. “I couldn’t fit my notebook into it.”

  Or Atherton’s notes or my gun, she added silently.

  “Oh, but surely you’re not going to be conducting interviews this evening,” Mrs. Fordyce said.

  “You never know,” Irene said. “Readers of Whispers will be thrilled with an inside peek at the Paradise Club. I may spot a star or two.”

  Oliver tightened his grip on her arm and steered her toward the door. “Time to go. Cocktails at seven. Dinner at eight.”

  Irene allowed herself to be escorted out into the balmy night.

  A sleek, dark blue speedster waited in front of the inn. Irene had seen a lot of expensive vehicles in the year that she had worked for Helen Spencer, but never one like Oliver Ward’s. The bold, sweeping curves reminded her of a yacht or an airplane.

  “My dress matches your car,” she said.

  Oliver smiled. “I like blue.”

  He opened the passenger side door for her. She slipped into a cockpit of a front seat. It was upholstered in rich, hand-tooled leather the color of butter and just as soft. The instrument panel looked like it had been designed by an artist working in the art deco style.

  “I can put up the top,” Oliver said.

  “No, thanks.” She took a scarf out of her handbag. “It’s a beautiful evening. I’d like to enjoy it.”

  “So would I,” Oliver said.

  But he was looking at her, not at the evening sky.

  He closed her door gently, as if he were tucking her into bed. She flushed at the image and busied herself with knotting her scarf under her chin.

  Oliver rounded the front of the car and got behind the wheel. The narrow front seat suddenly seemed a thousand times smaller and much more intimate.

  He put the car in gear and eased it away from the curb. The big engine purred like a tame leopard.

  At the end of the street, he turned onto Cliff Road, a narrow, winding strip of pavement that followed the ragged coastline. She was not surprised to discover that he was an expert driver. He eased gently into each turn and accelerated smoothly on the other side.

  The last light of a fiery sunset was fading fast. The red tile roofs and stucco walls that characterized so much of the town’s architecture were bathed in the colors of twilight. Out on the horizon the ocean blended into the evening sky.

  Irene suddenly wished that she and Oliver were setting out on a long night drive with no destination in mind.

  “This car is gorgeous,” she said. She touched the gleaming instrument panel with an appreciative finger. “But I don’t recognize the make and model.”

  “It’s built on a Cord chassis but the rest—the engine, steering wheel, brakes, instrument panel, and exterior body—are all custom. My uncle designed it.”

  “It looks so sleek. Where do you get
this kind of custom work done?”

  Oliver smiled. “My uncle knows some people. But letting him make so many modifications may have been a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t dare let a regular mechanic touch it. Chester is the only one who can work on the car because he’s the only one who knows how it operates.”

  “What kind of changes did your uncle make to the engine?”

  “Don’t ask me, ask Chester. All I know is that this car can go very fast.”

  She understood. “You like to drive fast.”

  “Sometimes.” Oliver shifted into another gear with the finesse of a considerate lover. “It makes for a pleasant change once in a while.”

  “A change from having to rely on a cane,” she said before she stopped to think.

  He gave her a quick, appraising glance before returning his attention to his driving. She got the feeling that she had not exactly surprised him; rather, she had confirmed some impression that he had already formed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The one-word answer was devoid of all emotion, but it told her just how much he hated the cane and what it represented.

  “Understandable,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t indulge my taste for speed when there is a passenger in the car.”

  “I don’t have a problem with speed,” she said, “so long as I trust the driver.”

  “Given that I am permanently hobbled with a cane due to a serious failure of judgment that nearly got me killed, I won’t ask the obvious question.”

  “You won’t ask me if I trust you?”

  “No. Too soon for that.”

  “Nothing personal,” she said, “but I’ve experienced some rather serious failures of judgment, myself. I’ve concluded it’s probably best not to trust anyone.”

  “Safer that way.”

  “Yes.”

  “So much for trust. Aren’t you going to ask me the question that everyone else wants to ask?”