The Girl Who Knew Too Much

by Amanda Quick

  In the picture she was standing beside the car looking as thrilled and delighted as a child who had just opened a surprise birthday present. It was clear from her expression that she was not accustomed to such gifts. He’d found the receipt for the car in Spencer’s study.

  He’d left the mansion with an excellent photo of his quarry and a full description of the car she was driving. It shouldn’t have been hard to track her. He had played one logical hunch after another, checking hotels and inns within a day’s driving distance. It finally dawned on him that she was either sleeping in her car or staying at cheap autocamps. It was the last thing he had expected. She had, after all, become accustomed to fine hotels and excellent restaurants in the course of her employment with Spencer.

  He’d hit another snag because he assumed that she would stay on the East Coast while she tried to find a buyer for the notebook. In his experience, when people ran, they usually ran to places they knew, often quite well. They felt safe in familiar haunts. In addition, as Spencer’s private secretary, Harris must have had some idea of whom to contact in the underground market that catered to thieves and espionage agents.

  But there had been no hint of a certain scientific notebook coming up for auction on the black market.

  By the time he’d figured out that she might not be on the East Coast, nearly two months had passed. His father had been furious.

  He thought the tide had turned when an investigator finally located the Packard. It was parked in a farmer’s yard. The farmer explained that he had found it sitting, abandoned, on the side of a dirt road one morning.

  For the first time it had occurred to Julian that his quarry might have resorted to hitchhiking.

  Another dead end.

  Finally, after more weeks of fruitless searching, he had at last picked up the first hint that Anna Harris had taken the path that so many others in search of new lives had followed. She’d found her way to Chicago and headed west on Route 66.

  By the time he’d arrived at that realization, however, another month had passed. Anna Harris was no longer an intriguing challenge; she had become an obsession.

  There was another factor in play now, as well. The old man had learned that Atherton’s notebook was worth far more than he had originally believed. There was more than one potential buyer with very deep pockets.

  Route 66 ended in Santa Monica, California. The town was bordered on three sides by the city of Los Angeles. The fourth side faced the Pacific. Julian was sure that Anna Harris had disappeared into L.A. True, she could have continued north to San Francisco, but his intuition told him that she would feel safer in the fabulous sprawl of Los Angeles. It was, after all, a place where nothing was what it seemed. It was Hollywood, the perfect setting for a woman on the run. A new name, a new past, a new future? No problem.

  There was no reason for Anna Harris to keep going. She had reached the edge of the continent.

  But it soon became evident that L.A. was an even better hiding place than he had initially feared. He had been in town for nearly a month and thus far had found no trace of her. Los Angeles and the surrounding towns and communities were filled with people, including a lot of single women, trying to reinvent themselves. In California, it seemed, no one had a past.

  He and the investigators he employed had hit another brick wall.

  He’d settled in at the Beverly Hills Hotel for what had become a long, hard slog. There was no point in being rich if you didn’t enjoy the benefits. The hotel, with its Sunset Boulevard address, acres of groomed gardens, and palm trees, was a California dream made real.

  Attractive, exciting people, including movie stars, populated the bar and reclined around the pool reading celebrity-obsessed papers like Daily Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. Two days ago he’d spotted Carole Lombard and yesterday afternoon he was sure he’d seen Fred Astaire.

  The place reeked of glamour—and glamour, he had concluded, was what had been missing from his life. This impossibly gorgeous world was made for him.

  “I’ll call you after I’ve had a chance to take a look at the paper,” he said into the phone.

  He dropped the receiver into the cradle and caught the eye of a passing bellhop.

  “Get me a copy of Silver Screen Secrets,” he said. “I’ll be out by the pool.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The bellhop found him a short time later. As soon as he saw the photo splashed across the front page, a rush of exultation hit him. He had studied the picture of Anna Harris every day for nearly four months. He’d had it enlarged so that he could get to know every angle of her face, the arch of her brows, the shape of her mouth.

  Her hair was styled differently in the newspaper photo. It was no longer confined in the rolled and pinned style suited to a private secretary. Instead it fell to her shoulders in deep waves. Very modern. Very Hollywood. But there was no doubt that the woman in the photo was a dead ringer for the target he had been hunting for so long.

  According to the caption, her name was Irene Glasson, a reporter. She had changed her name and her occupation. Smart girl, but not smart enough, he thought. You’re mine now.

  He studied the man who had his arm around Anna-Irene. The name, Oliver Ward, was vaguely familiar. He noticed the cane, and memory stirred. He read the full story.

  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 . . .

  Julian put the paper aside, slipped on his sunglasses, and sat quietly, contemplating the sunlight dancing on the surface of the pool. After a moment, he smiled.

  He had long ago discovered that the hunt was far more exciting than seduction and foreplay. And the kill surpassed any act of sexual release he had ever experienced.

  It was at that moment when he held another person’s life in his hands—when he saw the stark terror in the eyes of a target—that he knew what it was to be fully alive.

  But first things first. He had to find the notebook before he could take his time with Irene. The old man wouldn’t stop nagging him until the damned notebook was recovered.

  Chapter 20

  Irene was in her room, getting ready for the long drive to Los Angeles, when she heard Mrs. Fordyce calling to her from the foot of the stairs.

  “Phone call, Miss Glasson.”

  Mentally she ran through the very short list of people who knew she was staying at the inn and who might have a reason to call her. She came up with two names: Velma Lancaster and Oliver Ward. Considering the fact that Velma had phoned a short time ago, the odds were good that Oliver was the caller.

  Anticipation sparked inside her. She tried to squelch it. They were partners in the investigation, she reminded herself. That was the extent of their association.

  She went out into the hall and hurried down the stairs. Mrs. Fordyce motioned toward the receiver lying on the front desk.

  “If you continue tying up my telephone, there will be an extra charge,” she warned.

  “Just put it on the bill. My paper will cover it.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mrs. Fordyce said. “Now I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Got a full house this morning.”

  She bustled off. Irene glanced over her shoulder into the cozy breakfast room. All of the tables were occupied by guests, and every last one of them seemed to be watching her from behind a copy of the morning newspaper.

  I’m getting paranoid, she thought.

  She picked up the phone and composed herself. She wanted to sound cool and professional—not like a woman who had been waiting by the phone for a man to call.

  “This is Irene Glasson.”
<
br />   “Miss Glasson, you don’t know me but I think we should talk.”

  Not Oliver. Anticipation evaporated. Not Velma, either. The voice on the other end of the line was female, husky, and a little breathless. It was pitched at the level of a whisper.

  Another kind of excitement spiked.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  “Someone with information you want. I’m willing to sell it to you.”

  Irene tightened her grip on the phone.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” she said, doing her best to sound disinterested. “I’m a journalist. I get crank calls all the time from people who claim to have useful information to sell.”

  There was a short, startled pause on the other end of the line. Evidently the would-be informant had not expected to be brushed aside.

  “Trust me, you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to tell you. I know what really happened the night Gloria Maitland died.”

  “Is that so?” Irene injected a tincture of mild curiosity into her voice. “Were you at the scene?”

  “What? No.” Panic spiked in the whispery voice now. “I was nowhere near the Burning Cove Hotel that night.”

  “Then I doubt you have anything useful to tell me. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Wait. I wasn’t at the hotel but I was at the Paradise Club.”

  “You’ve got sixty seconds,” Irene said. “Talk fast. Tell me something I can believe.”

  “I am the woman who was in the garden with Nick Tremayne at the Paradise Club.” The words came out in a rush.

  “You’re Daisy Jennings?”

  Another startled pause.

  “How did you know my name?” Daisy demanded.

  “I consulted a psychic.”

  “Really?” Daisy sounded uncertain, half believing. “Which one? There are several in town.”

  “We’re wasting time, Daisy.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened the night that woman drowned in the spa, but not on the phone, understand? The money comes first. Then I’ll talk.”

  “Why would you tell me anything about Nick Tremayne?”

  “Because I need some money and I need it in a hurry. I’m going to leave Burning Cove on the morning train. Are you interested or not?”

  “How much money?”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  “Forget it,” Irene said. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Rockefeller? I don’t carry that kind of money on me.”

  She did have her emergency stash in her handbag. She could dig into it if necessary. But if Daisy had solid information to sell, Velma would be willing to cover the expense of purchasing it. She wouldn’t go as high as a hundred dollars, however.

  “All right, all right, make it fifty,” Daisy said.

  “My rate for useless information is zero,” Irene said. “But if I like what I hear, we can negotiate.”

  “Twenty?” Daisy said quickly.

  “I can manage that much if the information is good. When and where do we meet?”

  “There’s a phone booth on the corner of Olive and Palm streets. Be there at eleven thirty tonight. I’ll call you and tell you where to meet me. Make sure you come alone or the deal’s off, understand?”

  The line went dead before Irene could get in another question.

  She closed her notebook and stood quietly for a moment, thinking. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be making the drive to Los Angeles that day. If she got delayed for any reason—engine trouble or a road closure—she might not be able to get back to Burning Cove in time to make the rendezvous that night.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Oliver’s office number. Elena put her through immediately. Oliver did not bother with the usual pleasantries.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “How did you know—? Never mind. I’d like to talk to you privately as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  She hesitated. “That will probably cause more gossip.”

  “Misdirection, remember?”

  Chapter 21

  “Have you lost your mind?” Oliver said. “A late-night meeting with an informant who wants cash? You can’t be serious.”

  “Got a better idea?” Irene asked. “It’s not like we have any other leads. I wanted to talk to Daisy Jennings. This is my big chance.”

  She was regretting her decision to tell Oliver about Daisy’s call. She was also starting to get mad.

  Oliver had pulled up in front of the Cove Inn less than ten minutes after he had hung up the phone. Eager to tell him her news, she had jumped into the front seat before he could extricate himself from behind the wheel.

  He had listened closely, his mood darkening with every word, while driving to a small, secluded beach. She had not realized just how angry he was until he switched off the ignition and angled himself in the seat to confront her. She had expected him to be concerned but she did not anticipate the lecture. They were partners, after all.

  “Don’t you get it?” he said. “It’s a setup. It has to be.”

  “You don’t know that. What would be the purpose?”

  “If you’re right, we’re dealing with a man who has murdered several women. One more probably won’t matter to him.”

  “I agree, but we’re also dealing with a man who has been very, very careful to protect himself. All of the murders have been made to look like accidents.”

  “Here’s a bulletin for you, Miss Reporter, the corner of Olive and Palm is a shopping street. It will be deserted at eleven thirty at night. A great place for a lethal auto accident.”

  She took a breath. “All right, I admit I didn’t know the neighborhood where the phone booth was located, but believe it or not, it did occur to me that Daisy might not have been entirely truthful with me. Why do you think I called you to discuss the situation?”

  “I’d like to believe it was because you had an attack of common sense, but that could be wishful thinking on my part.”

  “Damn it, stop treating me like I’m an idiot. I do know there is some risk involved, but there is also the very real possibility that Daisy Jennings has solid information to sell. She told me that she needs money because she’s leaving town on the train first thing in the morning.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No, but obviously it’s because she’s scared.”

  “There’s nothing obvious about this situation. It’s getting murkier by the day.”

  Oliver turned abruptly in the seat and opened the door. He levered himself up from behind the wheel and grabbed his cane. She watched him make his way down the short path to the beach. She knew that he was in pain. His limp was a little more pronounced. Walking on the rocky, uneven landscape likely wasn’t helping matters. It occurred to her that he had probably put some strain on his bad leg during the night when he had attempted to protect her from the photographer. Today he was paying for his act of chivalry.

  He came to a halt at the water’s edge and stood silently, contemplating the crashing waves through his sunglasses. His profile was as hard as the cliffs. The breeze off the ocean tangled his hair and whipped at the edges of his linen jacket. She waited a moment. When he showed no signs of returning to the car, she opened her own door and got out.

  She picked a path down to the beach and came to a halt beside Oliver.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” she said.

  He turned his head to look at her, his eyes unreadable through the lenses of the sunglasses. But, then, his eyes were often unreadable, she thought.

  “I thought we agreed that you would stop apologizing,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  “I made it clear back at the start of our partnership that I’m involved in this investigation of yours because I want to know
what really happened to one of my guests.”

  “Right.”

  He groaned. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

  “I absolutely agree with you on that point.”

  There was a brittle silence.

  “How did Daisy Jennings find out that you want to talk to her?” Oliver asked.

  Irene thought back to the phone call. “She didn’t actually say that she knew I wanted to interview her. She just said that she was with Nick Tremayne in the garden at the Paradise Club the night Gloria Maitland was found dead. She said she had information to sell.”

  “How much did she want?”

  “The asking price was one hundred dollars.”

  He whistled softly. “That’s a lot of cash to expect a reporter to come up with on short notice.”

  “I told her I didn’t have that kind of money. She immediately dropped the price to fifty and, finally, to twenty bucks. In the end she agreed to negotiate. I got the feeling she’ll take whatever I’m willing to pay. I’m sure my editor will cover the expense, provided the end result sells newspapers.”

  “I’ll take care of paying our informant,” Oliver said.

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “I said I’ll take care of it,” he repeated evenly.

  “If you insist. I can’t believe we’re arguing about who will pay Daisy Jennings.”

  “Neither can I.” Oliver was silent for a beat. “Doesn’t sound like she bargained very hard.”

  “I think she’s desperate. And very nervous. She knows something, Oliver. I have to talk to her.”

  “I’ll come with you to the meeting tonight.”

  “I had a hunch you were going to suggest that.”

  “It’s not a suggestion.”

  “I’ll admit, I’d like to have you with me. But Daisy was adamant that I show up alone. Like I said, she is scared.”

  “Don’t worry, she won’t see me.”

  Irene thought about that. Then she smiled.

  “Of course not,” she said. “You’re the Amazing Oliver Ward.”