by Amanda Quick
“You know hardly anything about me.”
“Everyone has secrets,” she said. “It doesn’t mean I can’t trust you.”
“That’s good to know,” he said. “Because I trust you, too.”
“Why?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe because you refused to leave me alone in a burning building?”
“You wouldn’t have left me there, either.”
“So we know that much about each other. Is that enough?”
“It is for me. For now.”
Then, before he realized what she intended, she bent down and brushed her lips lightly across his cheek.
The heat of her body whispered to his senses. An unfamiliar certainty flashed through him. He started to reach for her but she was already stepping back.
He watched her disappear into the shadows of the living room.
It was only after she was gone that he realized that for the past few minutes he had been entirely unaware of the pain in his leg.
He smiled, bemused by his own reaction to the woman and the dawn of the new day.
Magic.
Chapter 29
They were finishing a breakfast of fresh melon, creamy scrambled eggs, and toast on the patio when the phone rang. Oliver grabbed his cane and got to his feet.
“With luck that will be Brandon with an update,” he said.
He disappeared into the living room to take the call. Irene slathered butter on a slice of toast and watched the sun dance on Oliver’s private pool.
She tried to ignore the nervy sensation that abruptly knotted her stomach. She reminded herself that she and Oliver had been expecting the call. The problem was that she had been savoring the intimacy of the moment—a perfect breakfast on the patio at the start of another perfect California morning.
It was all a little too perfect. Reality had been bound to intrude.
Oliver reappeared a few minutes later. His expression was severe but she could sense the energy in the atmosphere around him.
“Well?” she said.
He lowered himself into the chair across from her. He seemed to be moving more easily this morning, she thought. She took that as a sign that he had not inflicted too much damage on his poor leg during the night. Scratch the poor, she thought. The man had his pride. She respected that.
“Brandon says Springer and his pal—a guy who goes by the name of Dallas—are both hired muscle,” Oliver said.
“We guessed that much. The question is, who hired them?”
“According to Springer, he and Dallas are both professional stuntmen. Seems work at the studios has been a little slow lately, so they’ve been picking up some extra cash by doing odd jobs for a shady character named McAllister, otherwise known as Hollywood Mack. Springer claims that he and his pal don’t know who commissioned the arson last night. He says Hollywood Mack never tells them the name of the so-called client, but Brandon made some telephone calls to a pal in the L.A. police department. Evidently Hollywood Mack is reputed to perform certain services for some of the studios—including the one that has Tremayne under contract.”
“In other words, Hollywood Mack rents out his tough guys to the fixers who are in charge of cleaning up the messes created by the studios’ stars.”
“Cleaners, fixers, studio execs, whatever you call them, it’s their job to make scandals disappear,” Oliver said.
“So, someone at Tremayne’s studio hired those two stuntmen to get rid of me?”
“Brandon says Springer is sticking to his story. He was hired to torch the warehouse. He and his pal knew you would be there. But the idea was to scare you, not kill you.”
“But what about Daisy Jennings? How did Springer explain her body?”
“That’s the really interesting part,” Oliver said. “Springer swears up and down that he didn’t know there was a dead woman at the scene. Says all he and his pal were told was that a woman would be there and that they were to scare the hell out of her by setting fire to the place. You weren’t supposed to die, Springer says. He insists they didn’t know that old warehouse would go up like a torch. He expected you to come running out.”
“No. I’m sure that I was supposed to be dead or unconscious in that warehouse before Springer and Dallas arrived. The fire would have destroyed all the evidence at the scene. You were right. It would have looked like I accidentally died in a blaze that I started to cover up the murder of Daisy Jennings.”
“Yes,” Oliver said evenly. “I think that was the killer’s plan.”
“But everything went wrong because you accompanied me to the warehouse.”
“Finish your coffee. My car should be ready by now. Chester checked it over this morning and topped off the gas tank.”
A little thrill of excitement pulsed through her.
“We’re taking your car?” she asked, trying to make it sound casual.
“Yeah. I don’t trust that old sedan of yours. It’s a long drive to L.A. and back, and most of it is open, empty country. Not a lot of gas stations on the way. We don’t want to get stranded.”
“Right. A long trip. No need for you to do all the driving. I’ll be happy to give you a break.”
“No.”
“Several hours of driving will be hard on your leg.”
“No.”
“It’s a lovely day. We can put the top down.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever let anyone drive your car?”
“No.”
Chapter 30
The offices of Hollywood Whispers were on the second floor of a small nondescript building. Oliver looked around the grimy lobby, hoping to spot an elevator. There wasn’t one.
Irene paused at the foot of the stairs. “Why don’t you wait here? I won’t be long.”
He managed to squelch the flare of temper but it wasn’t easy. She was just being thoughtful, he told himself. But, damn it to hell, he was really tired of having his infirmity pointed out. The last thing he wanted from Irene was sympathy.
“I’ll come with you,” he said.
He was careful to keep his tone neutral but she blinked and looked a little taken aback. He realized she must have seen something in his eyes warning her that she was getting too close to the invisible line he had drawn.
“Suit yourself,” she said.
She took the stairs like a gazelle.
He watched her curvy rear disappear down a hallway. While the view was gratifying, he knew he probably deserved to get left behind in her dust. He was too touchy about the damned leg. He tightened his grip on his cane, grasped the handrail, and started up the stairs.
At the top, the relentless clacking of typewriter keys emanated from a large room crowded with desks and reporters. Several office doors stood open but the one labeled Editor was closed.
He raised his hand to knock but the door was yanked open before he could do so. Irene glared at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were hot with temper.
“We’re leaving,” she announced. “I’ve been fired.”
Behind her, a large, middle-aged woman with improbably red hair sat behind a battered desk. Velma Lancaster, he decided. Although she was sitting very still, she seemed to vibrate with nervy energy.
She studied Oliver through a pair of spectacles perched on her sharp nose.
“So you’re the Amazing Oliver Ward,” she said.
“And you’re Irene’s ex-boss.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Velma said. “Why don’t you both sit down and we’ll discuss this like civilized people?”
She had a voice that would have projected quite well from a stage.
Irene rounded on her. “I’m not feeling very civilized today. Last night I almost got burned alive and now you tell me I’m out of a job.”
Velma waved that off with
an impatient gesture.
“Sit down,” she snapped.
To Oliver’s surprise, Irene sank reluctantly into a wooden chair. She clutched her precious handbag on her lap and fixed Velma with a wary, narrow-eyed gaze.
Velma turned her attention back to Oliver.
“What’s your relationship to Irene, Mr. Ward?”
“We’re partners,” Irene said. “He was with me last night when we found another body and two goons tried to torch a warehouse with us inside.”
Velma did not take her eyes off Oliver. “Well, Ward? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You heard her,” Oliver said. “We’re partners.” He walked into the room, closed the door, and sat down. “Are you going to explain why the situation here is more complicated than it appears?”
“Yep, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Velma leaned back. Her chair squeaked in protest. “Can you protect Irene?”
“My security people are good,” he said. “And Luther Pell is a friend of mine. He has offered his assistance if needed.”
Irene’s head snapped around. Her eyes widened.
“You didn’t tell me that,” she said.
He waved that off. “There wasn’t any reason to until now. I thought it might make you uneasy.”
Velma got a knowing look. “That would be the same Luther Pell who owns the Paradise Club and some casinos?”
“Yes,” Oliver said. “That Luther Pell.”
“In other words, you’ve got access to some serious muscle.”
“Yes,” Oliver said again.
Irene looked at Velma and then at Oliver and back again. “Where are you going with this conversation, Velma?”
“Here’s the deal,” Velma said. She sat forward and lowered her voice. “This morning I got another call from Ernie Ogden at Tremayne’s studio. I was given a second warning. This time things got a lot more serious. It was strongly implied that Whispers would be out of business within a week if I didn’t get rid of the reporter who was causing trouble for Tremayne. So, naturally, I assured Mr. Ogden that I would fire Irene Glasson. And that’s what I’ve done. I even instructed Alice in bookkeeping to cut one last check with a week’s extra pay. It’s waiting for you at the reception desk.”
Irene groaned. “I’m sorry, Velma. I didn’t mean to put Whispers at risk. I thought I could prove Tremayne murdered Peggy and it would be a huge scoop for the paper.”
“I agreed to let you run with the story because of Peggy. I do not take kindly to having my employees murdered. But I am now in the position of having to protect the rest of the staff and this business.”
“I understand,” Irene said. She got to her feet. “Let’s go, Oliver.”
“Hang on for one damn minute,” Velma said.
“Why?” Irene asked.
“This doesn’t have to be the end of the line. You can work freelance. If you do get proof that Tremayne murdered Peggy or anyone else and if Tremayne is arrested, I’ll buy the story from you.”
“I’ll think about it,” Irene said. “But keep in mind that I might get a better offer from some other paper.”
She headed for the door. Oliver followed her out into the hall.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Get the story.”
He nodded, satisfied. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”
The receptionist looked up as they approached her desk. She gave Irene a sympathetic smile and handed her an envelope.
“Sorry about what just happened,” she said softly.
“Thanks,” Irene said.
“Did your cousin get ahold of you?”
Irene stopped, turning sharply. “What cousin?”
“A man telephoned for you yesterday. Sounded like he was from back east. Real classy accent. Said he was your cousin or something and that he was in town on business for a few days. He wanted to see about getting together with you. I gave him your address and phone number. Warned him that you were out of town, though.”
“Thanks,” Irene said. She looked at Oliver. There was shock and confusion in her eyes. “The studio? Trying to find out where I live?”
“Probably,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 31
The first clue that she had other problems in addition to getting fired came when she inserted her key into the lock on her apartment door.
Nothing happened.
“Wrong key?” Oliver suggested.
Irene looked at the key she was holding. “No, this is the right one.”
They were standing in the hall outside her apartment. She was very conscious of the general gloom that seemed to infuse the slightly shabby, two-story building. The contrast between it and the warm, gracious architecture of the Burning Cove Hotel was impossible to ignore.
Oliver studied the lock. “Looks new.”
“Of course, that explains it,” Irene said. Relief flashed through her. “The burglar must have broken the lock when he forced his way into my apartment. Mrs. Drysdale, my landlady, replaced it. I’ll go downstairs and let her know I’m back and that I need the new key.”
“I’ll come with you,” Oliver said.
She had started down the hall, but at that she stopped and turned around. “No need for you to go down those stairs twice.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said again. “Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“We’re wasting time, Irene.”
“Right.”
She was very conscious of Oliver making his way down the stairs behind her. His cane thudded on each step. She heard the hitch in his stride. He never said a word, but she knew that the descent must have been painful for him, considering what he had gone through in recent days.
When she reached the first floor, she went along another dingy hallway and knocked on Norma Drysdale’s door.
“Hold your horses,” Norma yelled in the harsh, hoarse voice of a lifelong smoker. “I’m coming.”
The door swung open. Norma appeared, wearing a faded housedress and an invisible cloak of stale smoke. Her bleached hair was set in tight marcel waves, a style that had been the height of fashion until recently but that now, thanks to stars like Ginger Rogers and Katharine Hepburn, had a decidedly dated look.
Norma peered at Irene as though trying to recall her name.
“Oh, it’s you,” she rasped. “Wondered when you’d show up. I was getting ready to sell your things. Figured I’d give you a week to collect ’em.”
“What?” It took Irene a couple of seconds to gather her wits. “But I’m current on my rent.”
Norma’s expression softened fractionally. “Sorry, but you’re trouble, honey, and I don’t need any more of that particular commodity. Got plenty as it is.”
Norma paused to indulge a coughing fit.
“What are you talking about?” Irene asked. “I’ve been a model tenant. I pay my rent on time. I don’t bring men back to my apartment. I don’t make a lot of noise.”
Norma got a sorrowful expression. “Things change, honey. Like I said, sorry, but that’s how it is.”
Oliver studied Norma. “I assume you’ve had a visit or a phone call from someone who advised you that it was in your best interests to evict Miss Glasson.”
“Yeah, the studio sent a goon around.” Norma squinted at him. “Probably the same one that broke into 2B a couple of times.”
“He broke in twice?” Oliver said.
“Yeah.”
“Why would he do that?” Irene asked.
“How should I know?” Norma shrugged. “First time he made a mess. It looked like the real deal—a straight-up burglary—so I called the cops and then I called you to let you know what had happened. But after the second break-in last night, I figured the bastards were trying to sen
d a message.”
“What message?” Oliver asked.
“Just trying to scare Irene, I guess. Let her know she wasn’t safe anywhere—that they could get to her.” Norma broke off to cough a few more times. When she had composed herself, she eyed him more closely. “You’re the Amazing Oliver Ward, aren’t you? The magician who bungled his last act and nearly got himself killed? There was a picture of you and Irene in Silver Screen Secrets yesterday morning.”
He ignored that. “What was the threat that convinced you to toss Miss Glasson out into the street?”
Norma shrugged. “I was told that if I didn’t get rid of a certain troublesome tenant, there would be an accidental fire. Might lose the whole apartment house. This building is my retirement. Can’t afford to risk it.”
Irene pulled herself together and took a step back. “I’m sorry I got you involved, Mrs. Drysdale. Where are my things? I’ll get them and leave you in peace.”
“I put your stuff in some boxes,” Norma mumbled. She did not make eye contact. “Broom closet at the end of the hall.”
“I’ll get them,” Irene said.
She started to turn away.
Norma grunted. “Here’s a tip, honey. The studios own this town. You don’t cross ’em, not if you want to make a living. The sooner you figure that out, the better off you’ll be.”
Irene paused. “I’m getting the message.”
Norma switched her attention back to Oliver. “Saw your act once. You were darn good, at least back before you messed up. I liked the way you made that pretty woman in the skimpy dress walk straight into the mirror and disappear. What went wrong that day you were almost killed?”
“I can’t tell you,” Oliver said. “Magicians’ Code.”
“Huh?”
Oliver looked at Irene. “Let’s get your things.”
Irene turned on her heel and started down the hall. She heard the door slam shut behind her. There was a very final-sounding snick as the bolt slid home.
An odd sensation ghosted through her, a mix of wistfulness and resignation. The Ocean View Apartments—for rent by week or month—didn’t have an actual view of the ocean. It didn’t offer much in the way of amenities. But it had been her home since she had arrived in Los Angeles.