by Amanda Quick
He was forced to stop, too. He released her, hooked the handle of the cane over the railing, and leaned against the wooden barrier.
“It means that this is Burning Cove, not L.A.,” he said. “The rules are a little different here.”
“Mr. Ward—”
“Oliver.”
“Oliver. I appreciate that you have an interest in finding out what happened in your spa and I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t want to be responsible for you doing something that could get you arrested.”
He smiled a little at that. “Trust me, if I get arrested, it will be my own fault.”
She folded her arms under the protective cloak of his coat and looked at him. In the weak glow of the nearby lamp, he could see the shadows in her eyes.
“I assume your next step is to try to interview Daisy Jennings?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Luther was right, you know. She won’t talk. By now the studio people will have gotten to her.”
Irene angled her head a little and studied his face in the dim light. He realized that she was trying to read him.
“It’s worth a try,” she said. “I don’t have any other leads.”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“No,” she said. “I can’t. By any chance, do you know Miss Jennings?”
“I know her,” he said. “She’s all right but she’s wasting her life chasing a dream.”
“She wants to be an actress?”
“Daisy Jennings spends her nights at the Paradise Club and sometimes in the lounge at my hotel because she hopes that if she sleeps with the right person, she’ll finally get that screen test, the one that will transform her into a movie star.”
“That’s so sad.”
“She’s hardly alone. Hollywood is filled with dreamers like her. Some of them find their way to Burning Cove because the stars and directors come here.”
“I know,” Irene said. “In the time I’ve been working at Whispers, I’ve met a lot of people with stars in their eyes. Everyone has dreams.”
“What’s your dream?” he asked.
“Dreams change. I lost my parents when I was little. My grandfather raised me. I used to dream about traveling around the world. But Grandpa died when I was fourteen. I wound up in an orphanage for a couple of years. For a while my dream was to have a family of my own. But it soon became obvious that what I really needed was a way to make a living. My dreams are a lot more pragmatic these days. What about you?”
“Like you said, dreams change. There was a time when I wanted to become the next Houdini. Now my goal is to make sure the Burning Cove Hotel keeps turning a profit.”
“Sounds like we’ve both been able to adapt our dreams to our circumstances.”
“Probably less frustrating that way,” he said.
“Probably.”
“What happens if your investigation goes nowhere?” he asked.
“I’ll go back to my job and find another story to cover. Speaking of my big story, I’m grateful to you for opening some doors for me. It was nice of you to introduce me to Luther Pell tonight.”
“You can skip the gratitude,” he said. “I don’t want it.”
He had evidently spoken more sharply than he had intended because she stiffened and then threw him a quick, searching glance.
“I was trying to be polite and civil,” she said coldly. “Are you always this prickly?”
He groaned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. Just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t expecting anything more out of this partnership.”
“Anything more?” she repeated much too carefully.
The wooden boards on which he was standing might as well have been transformed into eggshells. He was afraid to make another move but he felt compelled to try to explain.
“Gratitude can be misunderstood,” he said.
“Really? I have no problem understanding exactly what it means.”
“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t expect you to fall into bed with me as a way of thanking me for opening those damned doors.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of sleeping with you as a way of repaying you for your help. Are we clear on that?”
“Perfectly clear.”
“Good. In that case, I’m going back to my room. Alone.”
She stepped smartly to the side, whipped around him, and marched swiftly back along the pier.
“Damn it, Irene, you’re twisting my words.”
He grabbed his cane off the railing and started after her. Pain ripped through his bad leg. For a couple of seconds, he could scarcely breathe through the agony. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the cane, and kept going.
Irene did not look back but her dainty heels slowed her down. He had closed most of the distance between them by the time she reached the front steps of the Cove Inn.
He saw the two men hunkered down in the shadows on the porch before Irene did because she was busy rummaging around in her big handbag for the key.
“Irene, stop,” he said, using his stage voice, the one that carried all the way to the back row of the theater.
Startled, she froze.
“What?” she asked.
The two men surged out of the shadows. One of them held a boxlike object in his hands.
Oliver braced himself on his cane and grabbed Irene. He pulled her close, trying to shield her from what he knew was coming.
The flashbulb exploded. Oliver turned his head to avoid being blinded by the dazzling light.
“Comment for the press, Mr. Ward?” one of the men said. “How long have you and Miss Glasson been seeing each other?”
The second man fired his camera. The flashbulb went off, searing the night.
“What about you, Miss Glasson?” the first man said. “Care to comment on the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ward?”
“We’re friends,” Irene said, her voice very tight.
She managed to find her key. Oliver took it from her, got her up the steps, and opened the door.
“You heard the lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Just friends.”
He hauled her into the lobby and slammed the door shut.
Footsteps pounded away down the sidewalk. Somewhere out on the street a car engine roared to life.
“Damn,” Irene said. She freed herself from the circle of Oliver’s arm and slipped off his jacket. “I’m supposed to be the one writing the story—not the subject of the story. How bad is this going to be?”
“I have no idea,” Oliver said. “Someone sent that pair to ambush us.”
“Tremayne’s studio?”
“Probably. The question is, what do they plan to do with the photos?”
“Neither of us is a star,” Irene said. “I can’t imagine any newspaper or Hollywood magazine paying for those shots.”
“You know, for an orphan who stopped dreaming fanciful dreams when she was fourteen, you’ve got a very optimistic attitude.”
Chapter 17
“What the devil is going on there in Burning Cove?” Velma Lancaster’s voice roared through the telephone line. “According to Silver Screen Secrets, you’re dating that ex-magician, the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel. And the competition gets the story? What am I paying you for?”
Irene clutched the phone and gazed, dumbfounded, at the front page of Silver Screen Secrets. Mrs. Fordyce had thoughtfully left the paper on the front desk counter where Irene could not miss seeing the large photo.
The picture was not a flattering one. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with shock. All in all she had the horrified expression of a woman caught in flagrante delicto. It did not help that Oliver’s white dinner jacket was draped around her shoulders and that he had her in a viselik
e grip.
It struck her as grossly unfair that Oliver somehow managed to appear both coldly dangerous and compellingly attractive. The fact that he was no longer wearing his dinner jacket added what could only be described as an extremely sensual element to the picture.
The caption that accompanied the photo had been written to put the worst possible light on the subject.
Ex-magician Mr. Oliver Ward and his new romantic interest,
Miss Irene Glasson, reporter.
Irene huddled over the phone and lowered her voice to a whisper.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said.
“What?” Velma shouted. “I can’t hear you.”
Irene raised her voice a little. “I said it’s not what it looks like.”
Mrs. Fordyce was pretending to be busy behind the counter but she was practically vibrating with curiosity. It was clear that she was listening to every word.
“You’re in the newspaper business,” Velma snapped. “You know damned well that a photo or a story is exactly what it looks like. Perception is everything. It looks like you’re involved in a murder investigation and you’re dating the owner of the hotel in which the murder occurred. What’s more, said hotel owner just happens to be the famous ex-magician who was nearly killed onstage in his final act.”
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone outside Burning Cove give a darn about my personal life?”
“With the exception of me and your colleagues here at Whispers, no one does give a damn about your personal life. It’s Ward’s personal life that made the picture newsworthy.”
“I don’t understand. He said he wasn’t worried about the L.A. press because he was no longer a headliner.”
“Turns out he’s wrong. Evidently the press is still mighty curious about a famous magician who disappeared after nearly getting himself killed onstage. Nice dress, by the way. How in the hell did you afford that frock on what I’m paying you?”
“I got it as a loan courtesy of Mr. Ward’s hotel.”
“Oliver Ward gave it to you?”
“Don’t start with the innuendos. My association with Oliver Ward is strictly business.”
“Interesting business you’re in these days.”
“Mr. Ward is assisting me in my investigation,” Irene said coldly.
“Yeah? Read the rest of the story.”
Irene scanned the piece quickly.
That legendary man of magic, Mr. Oliver Ward, who pulled off a disappearing act after a disastrous accident onstage, has materialized in the community of Burning Cove, California. He now operates an exclusive hotel that caters to the rich and famous of Hollywood.
Last night Mr. Ward was seen escorting Miss Irene Glasson to a notorious nightclub in the seaside community.
One wonders if the once-great magician knows that he is dating a member of the press who works for a small-time L.A. newspaper. Evidently Miss Glasson has been questioned in connection with the drowning death of one of Mr. Ward’s hotel guests.
Perhaps even a skilled illusionist can be deceived by cheap goods.
“Cheap goods?” Irene repeated.
“Afraid so.”
“My reputation aside, evidently Oliver Ward was right.”
“Speaking personally, I take great exception to the description of Whispers as a small-time paper,” Velma said. “Secrets didn’t even print the name of my paper.” There was a slight pause. “What do you mean, Ward was right?”
“Our date last night was supposed to be an act of misdirection. Evidently it worked.”
“How is this an example of misdirection? In case you didn’t notice, there is a strong hint that you had something to do with Maitland’s death. Guilt by association, I think it’s called—not misdirection.”
“Never mind, Boss. Look, things are happening here. I need to talk to some more people in Burning Cove. I’ve got to stay on a couple more days.”
“Bad idea.”
Irene ignored her. “I didn’t pack for an extended stay, so I’m going to drive back to L.A. today to pick up some fresh clothes. I also need to see if anything was stolen from my apartment during the burglary. I’ll stop by the office and fill you in on what’s going on here. Once I have a chance to lay it out for you, you’ll realize this story is red-hot.”
“I suppose you expect me to keep paying the tab at that inn where you’re staying in Burning Cove.”
“This is going to be the story that makes Whispers the number one newspaper in Los Angeles, Boss.”
“Or puts it out of business,” Velma said.
“This isn’t just about Tremayne,” Irene said. “It’s about Peggy, remember?”
“All right, all right, I’ll spring for another couple of days at the inn. But don’t bother writing up another story with Tremayne’s name in it unless you’ve got rock-solid proof that he’s guilty.”
“Thanks. You won’t regret it.”
“What about the dress?”
“What dress?”
“The one you were wearing in the photo,” Velma said patiently. “The one that is probably worth more than I pay you in a year.”
Irene thought about the gown hanging in the closet in her room. “I told you, it was just on loan. I’ll be returning it to the management of the Burning Cove Hotel today.”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“It was just a prop.”
Chapter 18
Nick Tremayne tossed the copy of Silver Screen Secrets onto the patio table and pushed himself up out of the rattan chair.
“Ogden thinks that photo is going to solve my problems?” he asked.
“He’s quite pleased with it.” Claudia swallowed hard. “He says that today everyone in L.A. will be talking about the reclusive former illusionist who is dating a female reporter who is cheap goods, one who is now directly linked to the death of Miss Maitland. Mr. Ogden is sure that the story will nullify any damage done by the piece Miss Glasson wrote in Whispers.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Nick said.
Breakfast had been served on his private patio. He had dined alone because he was not in the mood to make conversation with anyone. Claudia did not count. He had let her stand there, briefing him on the contents of the Secrets story, while he finished his eggs Benedict. He had not bothered to offer her a cup of coffee. She could get her own coffee. She was supposed to be his assistant, after all.
He went to the edge of the patio and stood looking out over the cove. The morning fog had burned off, leaving another sparkling day—another California-perfect day in what should have been his picture-perfect life.
Everything had been on track until recently. He was on a very fast elevator, headed for the top. Sure, he still had to put up with a studio contract, but soon he would have the kind of power it took to pick and choose the roles he wanted. Hell, he’d be rich enough to buy his way out of the damned contract if that’s what he wanted to do.
But a few weeks ago the first reporter from Whispers had started nosing around in his past. After Hackett’s fatal accident, however, he’d been sure he was in the clear. Then Gloria Maitland had reappeared, threatening to go to the press, demanding money in exchange for her silence. Ogden had come through but the payoff wasn’t enough to stop Gloria. Deep down he’d known that the cash probably wouldn’t be enough to keep her quiet, Nick thought. Gloria had wanted something more—she’d wanted revenge.
With Gloria out of the way, he had dared to hope that he was once again in the clear. He hadn’t expected any trouble from the local starstruck tramp, Daisy Jennings. She had sworn she would be his alibi for the night of Maitland’s death. I’ll do anything for you, Nick. She had wanted a screen test in exchange for protecting him. He knew he didn’t have that kind of power at the studio—not yet. But he’d made the promise. With luck, that would be
enough to keep her quiet until he could figure out how to stop Glasson.
It was always a woman who got in his way, he reflected—Betty Scott in Seattle; the washed-up gossip reporter, Hackett; Gloria Maitland; Irene Glasson.
It was always a woman.
“It’s true that people will probably assume that Glasson is sleeping with Ward,” he said. “They may even wonder if she was responsible for Maitland’s death. But it doesn’t follow that Glasson won’t write another story about me. And people will read it, even if they do think she is a cheap little whore. I can’t afford any more gossip linking me to murder. Ogden has got to make sure Glasson doesn’t write another piece for Whispers.”
“Mr. Ogden said to tell you again that everything was under control,” Claudia said. “He promised he’d deal with Irene Glasson.”
“You’re useless. Get out of my sight. I need time to think.”
Claudia hurried back into the front room of the villa. A few seconds later the front door closed behind her.
Nick turned back to the dazzling view of the cove. He would not allow a woman to derail his damned-near-perfect life.
Chapter 19
Just when he had begun to think that Los Angeles would defeat him.
“Are you sure?” Julian Enright said into the phone.
“See for yourself, sir,” Marcus Goodman said. “Get a copy of Silver Screen Secrets. If that isn’t the woman in the picture you sent to our office, I’ll eat my filing cabinet.”
Marcus Goodman was the latest in a long line of private investigators and cops who had been paid to make inquiries about Anna Harris. For months all the leads had hit brick walls.
Back at the start it had all looked so easy, Julian reflected. When he’d returned again to Helen Spencer’s mansion, the place was abandoned. The police had given up. The housekeeper and butler had packed up and left. The lawyers were still trying to locate an heir to the big house.
The result was that he’d been able to take his time going through the mansion. He thought he’d gotten lucky when he found the framed photograph of Anna Harris and her new yellow Packard.