by Amanda Quick
She reached the end of the lane and paused before turning onto Miramar Road. She glanced back at Oliver. He was pressing hard on Springer’s wound. In the weak glow of the dashboard lights his face was set in hard, grim lines.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Never better. Drive.”
She pulled out onto Miramar Road and floored the accelerator.
“You know,” she said, “in the movies this sort of thing always looks a lot more thrilling.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Oliver said.
Chapter 27
“I thought you didn’t like guns,” Irene said.
“I don’t,” Oliver said. He drank some whiskey, lowered the glass, and rested his head against the back of the armchair. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t occasionally useful.”
Irene came to a halt in the middle of the living room and surveyed him with a critical eye. He knew the look all too well. He had been getting it every few minutes since they had walked through his front door a short time ago.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. Again.
“I’m fine,” he said, lying through his teeth.
He was heartily tired of the question but he told himself she meant well. He tried to sort through his mixed reactions to her concern. Sure, it was nice that she cared. But he hated knowing that she had seen him at his weakest that night.
He downed a healthy dose of whiskey to take his mind off the pain and his own miserable performance.
He was sitting in one of the big leather chairs in front of the fireplace, his damned leg propped on a hassock. Shortly after Irene had brought him home, he ordered a large quantity of ice from room service. He now had three ice bags draped over his bad leg.
Irene swallowed some of her own whiskey and resumed her pacing.
“Nick Tremayne used poor Daisy Jennings to lure us to that warehouse tonight and then he murdered her,” she said.
“I agree that’s how it looks,” Oliver said. He drank some more whiskey. “But it will probably be impossible to prove unless Springer wakes up and starts talking.”
Irene shook her head. “I never meant to drag you into this situation.”
“We’ve already had that conversation. I’d just as soon not reopen it, if you don’t mind.”
She stopped pacing and met his eyes. Whatever she saw there must have convinced her he meant every word.
“All right,” she said, uncharacteristically meek. She waved one hand in a vague gesture. “The problem now is, I don’t know what to do next.”
“Let’s see what Detective Brandon does. The cops can’t brush off Springer and his pal, not now that there’s another dead woman.”
“Another drowning victim who just happens to be one of Nick Tremayne’s lovers,” Irene said.
Oliver paused the whiskey glass halfway to his mouth and watched her very deliberately, willing her to understand the significance of what had happened.
“Daisy Jennings is dead, but she was not the only target tonight,” he said.
“I realize that.” Irene put her glass down. “You and I were also targets.”
“Not me,” he said. “You. No one knew I was along for the ride. Not until it was all over.”
She watched him, stricken. “I’m so—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t say it. What I’m getting at is that we now know for certain that someone is prepared to do whatever it takes to stop you. Springer said he and his pal were hired to scare you. That may be true. They may even believe it was the objective. But I think that whoever hired that pair to set fire to the warehouse would have been quite satisfied if you had died in the blaze.”
Irene took a deep breath and went to stand at the window, looking out at the patio and the moonlit ocean.
“My death in that warehouse would have made things simpler for him,” she said.
“Yes. In addition, it would have provided a neat explanation for Jennings’s death.”
“The cops would have assumed that I killed her and then died when I accidentally knocked over a lantern and set fire to the warehouse. But what’s my motive? Why would I murder Daisy Jennings?”
“I agree that the story is weak when it comes to motive, but I doubt if anyone would worry about that too much. The police would be happy to have it all tied up in a neat package.”
Irene turned around. “Tonight was different because Tremayne used fire against me. Daisy and Gloria Maitland and the others were all made to look like cases of accidental drowning.”
“There could have been any number of reasons for the change in his pattern. Magicians rework the same illusions in a variety of ways to keep the act convincing. The killer probably decided that two drowning victims at the same scene tonight would have been a little hard for the cops to ignore. Besides, fire has a number of advantages.”
“Advantages?”
“It’s a classic and highly effective way of destroying evidence.”
Irene pondered that. “I see what you mean.”
“The real question is, where did the killer find Springer and Dallas?”
“Springer implied that he and his pal were hired muscle,” Irene said.
“Tremayne is from out of town. He wouldn’t know how to find local muscle.”
“So he brought Springer and Dallas in from L.A.”
“Maybe,” Oliver said. “Or maybe the studio provided the pair to clean up the mess Tremayne made here in Burning Cove. There’s no point speculating tonight. We need more information. We do know one thing, however.”
Irene frowned. “What?”
“It’s obvious now that you’re a target. You should not be alone, not until we find out who tried to kill you tonight.”
She gave him a sharp, unreadable look and then turned her back to him. Her shoulders were very straight.
“I can’t afford to hire a bodyguard, if that’s what you’re about to suggest,” she said. “And I’m sure my editor won’t pay for one—not for long, at least. How does one even go about hiring a bodyguard, anyway?”
“Forget the bodyguard. Finding one who knows his business and can be trusted isn’t easy. You’ll be better off staying here, with me, until this situation gets resolved.”
She turned around. “Here? At the hotel, you mean?”
“Here, in my private quarters. In spite of what happened to Gloria Maitland, I can promise you that I really do have good security, certainly better than the security at the Cove Inn. You’ll be reasonably safe if you stay on the grounds of the hotel.”
She stared at him, floored. It took her a moment to recover.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s a very generous offer but, really, it’s not necessary.”
“My bedroom is down the hall,” he said. He spoke very deliberately. “On this floor. The guest suite is upstairs, if you will recall. You saw it the night you found Maitland’s body in the spa.”
He waited for his meaning to sink in.
She flushed. “I never meant to imply—”
“Trust me when I tell you that I avoid going up and down stairs whenever possible. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
She turned red. “I don’t doubt for a moment that you would be a perfect gentleman.”
He wasn’t sure that was a compliment but he let it go.
“Good,” he said. “It’s settled, then.”
She got a stubborn look. “We both know I can’t stay holed up here at the Burning Cove Hotel indefinitely; I’ve got a job that I can’t afford to lose. I’ve also got an apartment in L.A. My editor told me that someone broke in while I’ve been out of town.”
“What the hell? Your apartment was burglarized?”
“Evidently. I was planning to drive to the city today to get some fresh clothes and take a look around to see if the burglar
stole anything. I’ll have to go tomorrow, instead.” She glanced at the clock. “Make that today.”
“Has it occurred to you that the break-in might be connected to your Nick Tremayne story?”
“Of course. Probably a studio job.”
“I can’t help but notice that you don’t seem overly concerned.”
“Naturally I’m concerned. But it tells me I’m on the right track.”
“You’re going to keep working on the Tremayne story?” He grimaced. “Of course you are. What was I thinking?”
“If I give up now, Nick Tremayne will continue to murder his lovers and get away with it. Tonight was a turning point. I can feel it. He’s starting to panic.”
“We can’t solve all of your problems tonight, but we can deal with one of them—your safety. Spend the night here. I’ll send someone to the inn to pick up your things. We’ll get more information from the cops in the morning. That should help us decide what to do next.”
She blinked. “Us?”
He swallowed the last of the whiskey and lowered the glass.
“Us,” he said.
She fell silent, as if she could not think of a response. He should probably take her lack of enthusiasm as a personal affront.
She started to resume her pacing but stopped midway across the room.
“Daisy’s handbag,” she said. “I forgot about it. I suppose we should give it to Detective Brandon.”
They both looked at the green handbag sitting on the coffee table where Irene had dropped it earlier.
“Open it,” Oliver said.
Irene went to the coffee table, picked up the bag, and opened it. She took out a lipstick, a compact, a hankie, a small coin purse, and a sheet of folded paper.
She unfolded the paper. “Looks like notes. Handwritten.”
She read a few sentences out loud.
“Trust me, you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to tell you. I know what really happened the night Gloria Maitland died.
“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.
“There’s an old abandoned warehouse at the end of Miramar Road . . . Remember, come alone. Deal’s off if I see anyone else.”
Irene stopped and looked up, shocked.
“It’s a script,” she said. “Someone gave Daisy Jennings a script to make sure she got all her lines right.”
“Is that the end of the script?”
Irene looked down again. “No. There’s another line. It’s scribbled in on the side of the page. A last-minute addition, maybe. Ask Tremayne about Island Nights and Pirate’s Captive.”
“Those sound like film titles,” Oliver said.
“But those aren’t the two movies that Tremayne made in Hollywood.”
“Tremayne wouldn’t be the first fast-rising star to have a couple of pornographic movies in his past.”
“That’s the sort of problem that studios fix all the time,” Irene said. “You don’t kill someone because of a pornographic film.” She hesitated. “Do you?”
“That probably depends on what’s on the film.”
“Are we going to give this script to Detective Brandon?” Irene asked.
“Not until we know for sure what’s going on.”
Chapter 28
The assistant had given him the wrong key. It did not fit the lock that secured the chains. He was trapped in the steel cage.
That was all the warning he got.
He wasted precious seconds extracting the backup key from its hiding place and unlocking the chains that bound him. He knew then that he had not been given the wrong key by mistake. There were no mistakes in an Oliver Ward illusion.
He was going to die if he did not free himself.
The first shot ripped into his thigh. Blood poured out in a hot fountain. The second shot grazed the same leg.
The third shot missed, just barely. He heard the shriek of metal as the bullet struck the chains.
He could hear the audience screaming now. The sound seemed to come from another dimension. He could not see anything because of the black curtains draped around the Cage of Death.
The horrified shouts and screams got louder. He realized the blood was leaking out of the cage and falling onto the stage.
His leg burned with cold fire. So did the truth. What had happened was not an accident . . .
Oliver came awake in an icy sweat, the way he always did when the nightmare struck. He sat up slowly, wincing at the throbbing ache in his thigh. The combination of whiskey, aspirin, and ice had taken the edge off earlier, allowing him to fall into a restless sleep, but the effects had worn off.
He thought about the medication that his doctor had given him for the really bad nights and decided against it. He hated the stuff. It dulled his mind and his senses for hours and put him into a peculiar twilight state.
It was close to dawn. He had to be sharp in the morning. The killer was now targeting Irene. Plans had to be made. Action had to be taken.
Energized by that reality, he grabbed his cane and stood up. He shoved his feet into slippers, pulled on a bathrobe, and let himself out into the hall.
For a moment he stood in the shadows, listening intently. He was accustomed to solitude. At night Casa del Mar echoed with silence.
Tonight was different. All was quiet on the floor above, but he did not feel the deep sense of aloneness that he usually experienced in the hours between midnight and dawn. Irene was there.
He walked across the moon-streaked living room, opened the French doors, and went out onto the patio. He stopped at the edge of his private pool.
The atmosphere was infused with the first faint light of dawn. The scents of the garden and the sea mingled in an invigorating tonic.
Dawn was always the best antidote to the nightmare and the memories.
He lowered himself onto the cushion of one of the fan-back rattan chairs and absently rubbed his leg while he contemplated options.
He heard the soft sound of Irene’s footsteps when she came down the stairs, walked through the living room, and emerged onto the patio. It occurred to him that he was not surprised that she had awakened. Her presence felt right. He could get used to this feeling of not being alone in Casa del Mar. Just an illusion, he thought.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.
“I got some rest,” she said, “thanks to the whiskey.”
“The universal if temporary cure. Doesn’t last forever but while it does, it works fairly well.”
“Yes.”
She sat down in one of the other rattan chairs. In the early light he could see that she once again wore one of the hotel’s thick white spa robes. Her hair looked as if she had raked it back behind her ears with her fingers. He could sense the anxiety that was riding her but he could also feel the gritty determination that was so much a part of her being. What secrets are you keeping, mystery woman?
“I’ll drive to L.A. with you today to pick up your things and check out the situation at your apartment,” he said.
She gave him a quick, skittering, sidelong glance. He knew he had touched on the mystery beneath the surface.
“There’s no need for you to make that long drive,” she said. “I’m sure it would be uncomfortable for you, given your poor leg.”
Irritation sparked through him. “It’s my leg. Let me worry about it.”
“If you’re so convinced that I need a bodyguard, perhaps one of the people on your hotel security staff could go with me.”
She wasn’t objecting to the idea of having someone accompany her, but she was definitely uneasy with the prospect of having him as her companion. He realized that she didn’t want him with her when she examined her apartment to see if anything had been stolen. She was afraid of what h
e might observe.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” he said.
She stiffened. “I didn’t mean that I didn’t want you along.”
He smiled. “Sure you did.”
“Look, you’re welcome to drive to L.A. with me,” she said. Her voice sharpened. “I was just concerned about your leg, that’s all.”
“I told you, I’ll take care of it.”
“Fine. It’s your leg.”
“Yes, it is my leg.”
She gave him a frosty look. “You’re annoyed.”
“Possibly.”
“Are you always this irritable?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my staff.”
She startled him with a steely smile. “No need to do that. I’m quite capable of forming my own opinion.”
He watched her warily. “And just what is your opinion?”
“I think certain subjects, such as a mention of your leg, annoy you.”
“It’s a mention of my poor leg that annoys me.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” She glanced around the patio as if searching for another topic of conversation. “I see you have your own pool.”
“I use it for exercising my poor leg.”
“Right.” She rose, clamping the lapels of the robe with one hand. “I think I’ve irritated you enough for one day and the sun isn’t even up yet. I had better go upstairs and see about getting dressed. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us.”
She turned and took two steps back toward the shadowed interior of the villa.
“Irene?”
She paused and looked at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“It’s going to be all right. We’ll figure this out together. Partners, remember?”
She walked back and came to a halt in front of him.
“Not just partners,” she said. “Not after last night.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I told you I knew that your friend Luther Pell trusted you. I found that . . . reassuring. But after what happened last night, I know I can trust you. That means a lot, believe me.”