The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“You mean, what really went wrong at your final performance?”

  “Right,” he said. His hands flexed a little on the steering wheel. “That question.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not? You’re a reporter. Aren’t you curious?”

  “You have always maintained that it was an accident and that the rumors of attempted murder were baseless. There’s no reason to think you would change your story tonight, not for a reporter from a scandal sheet. Besides, I’m in Burning Cove to cover another story, remember?”

  “I remember. About this other story you’re chasing.”

  “Yes?”

  “This isn’t just another movie-star-scandal piece, is it? I can tell this is personal for you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s personal.”

  “Do I get an explanation?”

  She had known that sooner or later he would ask for more information. That afternoon as she had used pins to set the deep waves in her hair, she pondered just how much to tell him.

  “Ten days ago another Whispers reporter died,” she said at last. “Her name was Peggy Hackett.”

  “Hackett? The gossip columnist who became a raging alcoholic and managed to get herself fired from her own column?”

  “My boss hired her about six months ago. Peggy was working on a story involving Nick Tremayne when she died. According to the authorities, she slipped and fell in the bathtub. She drowned.”

  She waited for Oliver to make the connection. He did. Immediately.

  “Like Gloria Maitland,” he said quietly.

  “Peggy died in a bathtub, not a pool, but, yes, almost exactly like Gloria Maitland.”

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “I’m the one who found Peggy’s body. Trust me, there are a lot of similarities between the two death scenes. Blow to the back of the head. Blood on the tiles. Death by drowning. A link to Nick Tremayne.”

  “And you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  She studied his hard profile. “Do you?”

  “No,” he said. “Any idea what Hackett’s Tremayne story involved?”

  “Peggy was pursuing the usual angle—Tremayne Rumored to Be Smitten with Aspiring Actress. This Time It Looks Serious. That kind of thing. But I think something happened in the course of Peggy’s research.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “When she started the piece, she treated it like any other assignment. It was going to be a very nice little scoop for Whispers. But at the last minute, just before deadline, Peggy told our editor that she needed more time. She said she had uncovered something much bigger than another Hot Star Seduces Young Actress story. But a few days later she was dead.”

  Oliver contemplated that for a moment. “How did it happen to be you who found the body?”

  Irene watched the road unwind in front of the powerful car. “There’s no big mystery about that. One morning Peggy didn’t show up at the office. When Velma couldn’t get her on the telephone, she sent me to Peggy’s apartment to make sure everything was all right. She was afraid that Peggy had started drinking heavily again. When I got there the door was unlocked. I went in and . . . found the body in the tub.”

  “I can see why a second drowning death would make you start to wonder about a pattern.”

  “I went into the living room and telephoned for the police and an ambulance, but it seemed to take forever for them to arrive.” Irene shivered. “I was going to wait outside on the front step but I kept thinking about the scene in the bathroom.”

  “What about it?”

  “Something didn’t look right.”

  “It was a death scene. No surprise that it didn’t look right.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You went back for another look, didn’t you?”

  She winced. “How did you know? You’re right. I don’t know why I felt like I had to do that. Maybe it was just to reassure myself that she really was dead and that there was nothing more I could do. But in hindsight I think it was the blood that bothered me.”

  “The blood in the water?”

  “No. Well, there was blood in the water, of course, because of the gash on Peggy’s head. But there was also some blood on the floor behind one of the claw-feet on the tub. I found a little more on the tiles under the sink.”

  Oliver said nothing. He just listened.

  “But here’s what really bothered me,” she said. “There was no bath mat on the floor and no towel hanging on the hook near the tub.”

  She waited, wondering if he would conclude she was crazy, paranoid, or simply over-imaginative.

  “You think the killer used the bath mat and a towel to clean up after the murder,” he said.

  He said it as calmly as if she had made a casual observation on the weather.

  She concentrated hard on the view of the road through the windshield, but all she could see were Peggy’s blank eyes staring up at her from under the bloody water.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, with control. “Yes. I think she was struck from behind before she got into the tub. I think there was too much blood on the floor and maybe on the walls to be consistent with a fall in the tub.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One more thing. I couldn’t find Peggy’s notes. She may have had a problem with the bottle but at her core she was a crack reporter. She kept very good notes. She’s the one who taught me how to get the quotes right and how to make it look as if you’d gotten a quote when the subject never actually gave you one.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Irene shot him a quick, searching glance. He didn’t look annoyed, she concluded. More like resigned.

  “Just doing my job,” she said.

  “Forget it. All right, so you think the killer took Hackett’s notebook.”

  “Yes, I do. I never found her notebook but I did find something interesting when I cleaned out her desk at the office.”

  “What?”

  “A piece of paper with the name Betty Scott written on it in Peggy’s handwriting. It looked like she had jotted down some quick notes while on the phone. In addition to the name, there was a phone number.”

  “You called the number?” Oliver asked.

  “Sure.”

  “And?”

  “Turned out to be a Seattle number. A woman answered. Said her name was Mrs. Kemp. She seemed surprised when I asked for Betty Scott. She said that Scott had rented a room from her at one time but that she had died about a year ago.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you are going to tell me Scott’s death was a tragic drowning accident?” Oliver asked.

  “Probably because you’re a magician. According to Mrs. Kemp, Betty Scott slipped and fell in the bathtub. Struck her head. Drowned.”

  Oliver whistled softly. “Any connection with Nick Tremayne?”

  “None that I could find.”

  “That would have been too easy.”

  “Yes. But when I started asking questions, Mrs. Kemp said that another reporter had called about Betty Scott.”

  “Hackett.”

  “I think so, yes. Mrs. Kemp said she could only tell me what she had told the first reporter—Betty Scott had been a waitress who’d had dreams of going to Hollywood.”

  “So there is a vague Hollywood connection,” Oliver said.

  “Very vague. A lot of people, including a lot of waitresses, dream of going to Hollywood and getting discovered.”

  “Where does Nick Tremayne come from?” Oliver asked after a moment.

  Irene gave him another quick, searching glance. “We think alike on some things. I looked into Tremayne’s background. According to his bio, he’s from the Midwest. Chicago, I believe.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, it??
?s no secret that film star bios are largely fiction. The publicists write them. What makes you doubt Tremayne’s?”

  “Something about his accent. I can’t place it exactly but I don’t think it’s Chicago. More West Coast. So, you’ve got three women dead in drowning accidents; two of the deceased were definitely connected to Tremayne. No wonder you think you’re onto a story. You’re sure you don’t know what Gloria Maitland wanted to tell you last night?”

  “No, only that it had something to do with Tremayne and that it was red-hot.”

  Oliver slowed in preparation for turning off Cliff Road. “How did Gloria Maitland know that you might be interested in whatever she had to tell you about Tremayne?”

  “That,” Irene said, “is an excellent question. I’m guessing that she had talked to Peggy. When she called the Whispers office, she asked for whoever had taken over Peggy Hackett’s job.”

  Oliver eased into a paved parking lot in front of yet another red-tile-and-white-stucco structure. This one looked like a mansion. It was surrounded by luxurious gardens and was protected by a high wall. An ornate wrought iron gate barred the entrance.

  There was a group of young men clustered around the valet parking stand. Their expressions brightened at the sight of Oliver’s car. They were visibly crushed when Oliver cruised past them and deftly maneuvered the vehicle into a space marked Private.

  “I think you just ruined their evening,” Irene said.

  “I can’t trust any of them with the key,” Oliver said. He shut down the engine. “They wouldn’t be able to resist taking the car for a spin as soon as we were out of sight.”

  “Who wouldn’t want to drive this car?”

  He gave her a speculative look. “Do you want to get behind the wheel?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to give it a whirl.”

  He smiled. “Forget it. No one drives this car except me.”

  She sighed. “If it were mine, I’d be possessive about it, too.”

  He opened his door and climbed out.

  Automatically she started to open her own door.

  “It’s supposed to look like we’re on a date, remember?” Oliver said.

  “Oh, right.”

  She sat back and untied her scarf while Oliver retrieved his cane and made his way around the front of the car to her door.

  He got her door open and reached down to assist her out of the passenger seat. She wasn’t sure what to do with the powerful hand that he offered. She was afraid that if she took it, she might accidentally pull him off balance.

  Flummoxed, she grabbed the top of the windshield frame instead, intending to use it to lever herself up out of the low-slung seat.

  “Are you usually this difficult?” Oliver asked. “Or am I getting special treatment?”

  Before she could respond, he took her arm in a viselike grip. He hauled her up out of the seat so quickly and with such force that for a second she was afraid she would be propelled into flight.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t want to—”

  She broke off awkwardly, not wanting to put her concern into words. She knew he would not appreciate it.

  “In the future don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I’m in danger of falling on my face.”

  She was almost certain that he was speaking to her with his back teeth clamped together. It was not an auspicious start to the evening.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Do me a favor. Don’t say sorry for the rest of the evening, all right?”

  “Right. Sorry. I mean—”

  “Forget it.”

  He steered her toward the wrought iron gate where two large, muscular men dressed in formal black and white waited. Irene suspected that they were supposed to look like butlers or majordomos, but they bore a striking resemblance to prizefighters or gangsters. It occurred to her that the fashionable drape cut of their jackets could easily conceal shoulder holsters.

  And maybe her imagination was getting out of control.

  “Good evening, Joe, Ned,” Oliver said. He inclined his head in casual recognition of the pair. “Nice night, isn’t it? I believe Miss Glasson and I are expected.”

  “Evening, Mr. Ward,” Joe said.

  “Mr. Ward, sir,” Ned said.

  Both men nodded politely at Irene.

  “Mr. Pell said you’d be along,” Joe said. “The boss is waiting for you upstairs in his private quarters. Need an escort?”

  “I know the way, thanks,” Oliver said.

  Ned pulled open one half of the big gate. Oliver steered Irene into the walled garden.

  She stopped short at the sight of the fairyland that surrounded the club. Small electric lights sparkled amid the lush greenery and illuminated a graceful fountain.

  Oliver was amused. “Not quite what you expected, I take it?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “I imagined an old, remodeled speakeasy joint with an entrance in some dark alley.”

  “Years ago Pell’s father, Jonathan Pell, made a great deal of money running gambling halls, taverns, and clubs in London. He retired young and moved the family to America. Figured it was the land of opportunity, a place where he could bury his shady past and get respectable. He invested heavily in the stock market.”

  “Of course. They said you couldn’t lose.”

  “After the old man got wiped out in twenty-nine, Luther took over the finances.”

  “He decided that the best way to recover was to go back into the original family business?”

  “Right. He operated a number of speakeasies during the dry spell. After repeal, he bought a Reno casino. He also has a gambling ship anchored in Santa Monica Bay. But the Paradise Club is his star property. It’s also his home.”

  “He lives in a nightclub?”

  “I live on the grounds of a hotel.”

  “True, but somehow that doesn’t seem quite so . . . unusual.”

  “Luther and I like to keep a close eye on our investments.”

  “I see. You know, I can’t help but notice that some of these men might be carrying guns.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do your security guards carry weapons?”

  “No,” Oliver said. “I operate a hotel, not a nightclub. The last thing I want on the grounds of the Burning Cove is gunplay.”

  “I take your point.”

  “I’m not a fan of guns,” he added. “They give people who carry them a false sense of security. Guns tend to jam when you need them most. In addition, it can be extremely difficult to hit a moving target, especially under stressful conditions.”

  Obviously he felt quite strongly about the matter. She decided not to mention that she was carrying Helen’s little gun in her handbag.

  Oliver stopped in front of another stout wrought iron gate and pressed the button on the intercom.

  “Ward and Miss Glasson here to see Mr. Pell,” he said.

  A deep masculine voice rendered somewhat scratchy by the device responded.

  “Welcome, Mr. Ward,” the voice said. “I’ll be right down to let you in.”

  “Thanks, Blake.”

  Oliver released the button. “Blake runs Pell’s household.”

  “A butler?”

  “Who doubles as a bodyguard.”

  “There seem to be a lot of those around here.”

  “It’s a nightclub, Irene, run by a man who made his money in speakeasies and the gaming business.”

  “I take your point. Again.”

  “I’ve got a question for you.”

  She had been starting to enjoy the adventure but that stopped her cold.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s about the blood.”

  Startled, she looked at him. “The blood?”

  “The lit
tle splashes of blood that you noticed under the bathtub and the sink in Peggy Hackett’s bathroom. I’m also interested in the fact that you noticed that the towel and bath mat were missing. A lot of people who stumbled onto a scene like the one you described would have been too shocked to take in such small details. Just wondered what made you pay attention to them.”

  For a couple of seconds she was too stunned to respond. She could not tell him the truth—that after the discovery of Helen Spencer’s body, she had become unnaturally sensitive to the details that indicated an act of violence. Some people might say she had developed a phobia. Others would conclude that her nerves had been strained to the breaking point.

  She turned her attention back to the ornate gate. A tall, burly man dressed in butler’s attire was coming toward them. Another man with a coat cut to conceal a weapon, she thought.

  It suddenly occurred to her that in some surreal way, the scene—a graceful, luxurious garden and an elegant mansion protected by men who probably carried guns—somehow represented the entire town of Burning Cove. She had entered a charming, glamorous paradise that hid dark and dangerous secrets.

  This is my new life, she thought. Everything looks great on the surface. I’ve made a fresh start, got a good job and my very own car, and tonight I’m going out to dinner with the most interesting man I’ve ever met and I’m wearing an amazing dress. But underneath it all I’m keeping some very scary secrets.

  “Oh, the blood?” she said, striving to sound as cool as possible. “I probably noticed it because I’m a journalist. In my profession, you learn to pick up on the details.”

  “Same in my field,” Oliver said.

  The butler was almost at the gate. Irene shot a quick, sidelong glance at Oliver.

  She had a feeling that he wasn’t buying her answer—not for a second.

  “Which field would that be?” she asked. “The business of magic or the business of running a classy hotel?”

  “Both. I told you, they have a lot in common.”

  Chapter 15

  She had lied about the blood. The question was, why?

  Oliver tasted the martini that Blake had mixed, and watched their host try to charm Irene, who was sipping a pink lady and pretending to appear enthralled.