The Girl Who Knew Too Much

  “Not so amazing, not anymore. But I can still pull off a reasonably convincing disappearing act.”

  She used one hand to hold her wind-tossed hair out of her eyes and turned to look at him.

  “I believe you,” she said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea—except that in some ways you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago. If he made a promise, you knew he’d keep it or go down trying.”

  “Yeah? Who was he?”

  “My grandfather.”

  Oliver winced. “I’m a few years older than you, Irene, but I’m not that much older.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, I didn’t mean to imply that I thought you were elderly—just . . . reliable. Dependable. Trustworthy.”

  “Like a good dog?”

  “Where I come from, reliable, dependable, and trustworthy are all valuable things. They are also, I have discovered, rare.”

  “How the hell do you know I’m all of those things?”

  “You can tell a lot about a man by the people around him. Your friend Luther Pell trusts you. I doubt that he has many friends that he does trust.”

  “Pell’s business enterprises drastically limit the number of trustworthy people he meets.”

  She smiled. “Which makes it even more interesting that you and he are friends.”

  Oliver watched her intently. “Some would say that the fact that my closest friend in Burning Cove has underworld connections is not a particularly good character reference.”

  “I work for a newspaper that specializes in celebrity scandals and sordid gossip. I’m a little short on sterling references, too. Does that worry you?”

  “No,” he said. “No, it doesn’t.”

  He did not say anything else but she was intensely aware of the electric tension in the atmosphere between them. She was almost certain that he was going to kiss her. She did not know if that was a very good idea or a very bad one. She only knew that she wanted to find out what it would be like to kiss Oliver Ward.

  “Irene,” he said.

  She touched her fingertips to his mouth.

  “Probably best not to talk about it,” she said. “Just do it.”

  Heat flared in his eyes. His hand tightened around the back of her neck, and then his mouth was on hers.

  It was a long, slow burn of a kiss. She went into it with no particular expectations, just a compelling curiosity. That, she concluded, was probably why she was blindsided by the sheer force of the desire that swept through her.

  She had never been kissed like this. Oliver crushed her mouth under his as if he had been thirsting for the taste of her for a very long time, perhaps forever. He kissed her as if nothing else in the world was more important than that moment and the embrace, as if he wanted her more than he wanted his next breath.

  If it was an illusion crafted by a skilled lover, it was a completely convincing one. She did not want to know the secret behind the trick. She wanted only to savor the magic.

  A thrilling excitement made her head spin. She wound her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with a sensual abandon that stunned her. If she had been asked, she would have said she wasn’t physically capable of such a response. A small voice in her head whispered that Bradley Thorpe would have concurred with that opinion. But, then, Bradley Thorpe was a lying, cheating bastard, she reminded herself, and, in hindsight, a boring lover.

  The kiss made her giddy, downright euphoric. She felt as if she had accidentally opened a long-forgotten closet and discovered some bright, shiny dreams that had been locked away since she was fourteen years old.

  The illusion ended with the honking of a horn. A car pulled off the road and stopped next to Oliver’s car. The vehicle overflowed with a pack of young people in their teens, male and female. Someone had borrowed his father’s car for the day, Irene thought.

  The kids waved and laughed as they bailed out of the front and back seats. They opened the trunk and hauled out blankets and a large picnic basket.

  The driver grinned at Oliver as the teens made their way to the beach.

  “Say, you’re the magician who owns the big hotel in town, right?” he said enthusiastically. “You were in the paper this morning, sir.” The kid switched his attention to Irene. “Are you the reporter who found the body in the spa?”

  “Time to go,” Oliver said.

  He tucked Irene’s hand in his. Together they made their way up the short beach path. The teens followed, clustering around and pelting them with questions. The girls wanted to know more about the dead woman in the spa but the boys soon switched their attention to Oliver’s car.

  “Is it true it’s the fastest car in California?”

  “How fast does it go?”

  “What does it have under the hood, sir?”

  “Say, would you mind if I took your car for a spin, Mr. Ward?”

  “Not today,” Oliver said.

  One of the girls studied Oliver’s cane.

  “Daddy took me to see you perform once,” she said. “I loved the part where you made the woman vanish in the mirror.”

  Oliver got the passenger side door open and bundled Irene into the seat.

  “Glad you enjoyed the act,” he said to the young woman.

  He rounded the front of the car and got behind the wheel.

  “Daddy says no one really knows what went wrong the night you nearly died onstage,” the girl continued in a voice laced with ghoulish excitement. “He says there were rumors that someone tried to murder you.”

  “The rumors were wrong,” Oliver said. “Have fun with your picnic. Keep an eye on the waves. Never turn your back on the ocean. It will take you by surprise every time. There’s a strong riptide just offshore here.”

  There was a polite chorus of yes, sirs.

  Oliver fired up the engine and drove onto the road.

  “Sorry about that,” he said after a moment.

  “What, exactly, are you apologizing for?” Irene asked.

  She held her breath waiting for the answer.

  “The interruption. I should have found a more private location.”

  She started breathing again. “Not the kiss, then.”

  He gave her a quick, searching glance.

  “Should I apologize for the kiss?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  He nodded once. “Good. The kids will talk, and Burning Cove is a small town. There will be more gossip.”

  Irene laughed, feeling lighter and more carefree than she had in a very long time.

  “Misdirection,” she said.

  Oliver laughed. It was, she realized, the first time she had seen him laugh.

  “Right,” he said. “Misdirection.”

  Chapter 22

  The skull-faced man was sitting at the counter, reading Silver Screen Secrets. He looked like an extra from a horror film, Irene thought. He wasn’t ugly, she decided, he was just weird.

  She took a seat at the end of the counter and ordered a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich and a cup of coffee. It wasn’t much of a dinner, but she was too nervous about the late-night meeting with Daisy Jennings to eat anything else.

  The skull-faced man folded his paper very precisely and got to his feet. He walked toward her. She was careful not to look at him, but when he stopped a short distance away, she knew she was doomed.

  “You’re Irene Glasson, aren’t you,” he said in a voice that sounded like it emanated from a crypt. “You wrote that piece about the woman who drowned in the pool.”

  “Yes,” Irene said. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Good point,” she said. “Would you mind leaving me alone? I’d like to eat my dinner in peace.”

  “You sh
ould stop making trouble for Mr. Tremayne.”

  Irene went still and then, very deliberately, she swiveled around on the stool and confronted the skull-faced man. For the first time she got a good look at his eyes. She had been wrong about the resemblance to an extra in a horror movie, she decided. The stranger looked more like one of the fanatics who carried signs announcing that the world was coming to an end.

  “Why are you so concerned with Mr. Tremayne?” she said, going for a softer tone.

  “Mr. Tremayne is my friend. You’ll leave him alone if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Do you know anything about Gloria Maitland?” Irene asked. “Do you have some information that I should know about?”

  “Stop asking questions.”

  The skull-faced man turned and walked out of the restaurant.

  Irene looked at the waitress for some guidance.

  “Don’t mind him, honey.” The waitress picked up the coffeepot. “He’s crazy but he seems harmless. Got a thing for movie stars.”

  “I know the type.” Irene paused. “Has he been in town long?”

  “Couldn’t say. He showed up here at Mel’s about a week ago. Comes in twice a day, regular as clockwork. He’s always got some of those Hollywood papers and magazines with him. Like I said, he’s crazy about movie stars.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  The waitress snorted. “I’m sure he does. But he never bothered to introduce himself.”

  Chapter 23

  Shortly before eleven thirty that evening, Irene eased her Ford to the side of the street. Oliver had been right; the neighborhood was deserted at that hour. The streetlamps provided some illumination but the windows were dark for the most part. She was very conscious of night pressing in on all sides. An eerie silence gripped the scene.

  As promised, there was a wooden telephone booth at the corner of Olive and Palm. The glass-paned doors were open.

  She switched off the engine and lowered the driver’s side window so that she would be sure to hear the phone ring. If it rings, she thought.

  “I don’t see any other cars around,” she said.

  “That’s a good sign,” Oliver said from the dark place on the floor behind the front seat. “It may mean she was serious about wanting to sell you some information. Still, we’re going to assume that someone is watching.”

  Irene folded her arms. “Sorry about the accommodations back there.”

  “It’s a little cramped but not nearly as bad as the compartment I used for the Corridor of Infinity effect.”

  “Was that the trick that nearly got you killed?”

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer.

  “No,” he said finally. “That was the Cage of Death.”

  She wanted to ask what, exactly, had gone wrong, but her intuition told her that the question was far too intrusive, the kind of question that only a very close friend or a lover could ask. He had kissed her, but that did not make them close friends or lovers.

  “I ran into one of Nick Tremayne’s biggest fans today,” she said. “He tried to warn me off the story. He said I shouldn’t make trouble for Tremayne.”

  “Think he was from the studio?”

  “No. He wasn’t a tough guy, just a fanatical fan. The waitress at Mel’s Café says he’s been a regular for about a week. She thinks he’s harmless.”

  “Tremayne checked in a week ago.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll have O’Conner, the head of hotel security, see what he can find out about the guy.”

  “All right. But I’m pretty sure he’s just another obsessed fan.”

  The phone rang. She flinched. Even though she had been waiting for the summons, the sound nevertheless startled her.

  “Here we go,” she whispered.

  She jumped out of the car and grabbed the receiver.

  “This is Irene Glasson,” she said.

  “There’s an old abandoned warehouse at the end of Miramar Road,” Daisy said. Her voice was infused with the same whispery quality, but this time she spoke very slowly and with great precision. “Bootleggers used it during Prohibition but it’s been empty since repeal. I’ll wait for you there. Remember, come alone. Deal’s off if I see anyone else.” There was a short pause. “And don’t forget the twenty bucks.”

  “Wait a minute, how am I supposed to find this place? I’m new in town, remember? I’m assuming you don’t want me to ask directions at the nearest bar or gas station.”

  “No.” Panic edged the word. “Don’t let anyone know where you’re going. I’ll give you directions.”

  Daisy rattled off a string of instructions and hung up the phone.

  Irene got back into her car and fired up the engine. “We’re heading for an abandoned warehouse at the end of Miramar Road. Know it?”

  “It’s located several miles outside of town on a bad road. It will take us a good forty-five minutes to get there from here. According to the locals, the warehouse used to be a bootlegger distribution point.”

  “Daisy mentioned that.”

  “Did she happen to mention that there’s a dock and a boathouse attached?”

  That stopped her for a few seconds. “A dock and a boathouse?”

  “That old warehouse sits on the edge of a small, hidden cove. That’s why the bootleggers used it. They could bring in boatloads of illegal liquor without drawing the attention of the authorities.” Oliver paused for emphasis. “They also used it to get rid of bodies.”

  “Bodies?”

  “The business was very competitive.”

  “I see.”

  “All in all, sounds like the ideal location for another drowning accident,” Oliver said.

  She caught her breath. “Yes, it does. All right, you’ve made your point. Do you really think Daisy intends to try to murder me?”

  “I think it’s more likely that our killer is using Daisy to lure you to the scene. I warned you this was probably a setup.”

  She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the wheel. “But what if Daisy is telling the truth?”

  “In that case, you’re right. We may come away from the meeting with some hard information that we can use to figure out who murdered Gloria Maitland.”

  There was a new note in his voice, she thought, one that she had not heard before. She struggled to come up with a description and finally settled on anticipation. He sounded like a man who was looking forward to a little excitement.

  “What if you’re right, after all?” she said. “What if this meeting with Daisy is a setup?”

  “We pull a rabbit out of the hat.”

  Chapter 24

  Daisy Jennings struck another match to light another cigarette—the last one in the pack. She had been chain-smoking ever since she made the first phone call to the reporter earlier in the day. Her throat was raw and her nerves were frayed. Her pulse was beating much too fast. The match shook a little in her fingers.

  It was the damned warehouse that was making her jumpy. No wonder the local kids claimed that it was haunted by the ghosts of the gangsters’ victims. She had brought a kerosene lantern with her but it was burning low. She should have taken the time to refill it before driving out to the warehouse, she thought. Too late now. She could only hope that the reporter would be on time.

  She got the cigarette lit and hastily blew out the match. She dropped it into the empty tin can she had found in a corner. She was being very careful with the matches and the butts. The warehouse was a firetrap.

  The wide door that opened onto the loading dock at the back of the structure hung on its hinges. She could hear the water lapping and the creak of rotting wood. It sounded like some creepy monster of the deep feasting on the bodies that had been dumped into the cove. Maybe she had seen a few too many horror movies.

  Occasionally
she heard ominous rustlings in the shadows. Each time she hoisted the lantern to take a closer look, she caught sight of a furry body with a hairless, snakelike tail. The bootleggers had pulled up stakes and moved on to other business ventures, but the rats had set up shop amid the heaps of moldy straw, wooden crates, and leftover packing materials that littered the place.

  She tossed the empty pack aside and inhaled deeply. The action triggered another coughing fit. So much for the brand’s promise that its product had a soothing effect on the throat. It just went to show that you couldn’t trust the claims made in the magazine ads. Couldn’t trust the movie stars or the doctors who made those claims for the cigarette companies, either.

  But, then, a smart woman didn’t trust anyone, she thought, least of all a charming, good-looking movie star. Nick Tremayne was a dream man and he had promised to fulfill her dreams. He had said he would get her a screen test at his studio. She knew now that he had lied, just like all the others before him.

  But at least Tremayne had come through with some cash—a lot of it. None of the others had been so generous. The first half was paid up front. After tonight she would collect the second half. That would give her enough money to buy the clothes she would need to start over in L.A.

  No more Hollywood dreams. Her looks would start to fade soon. It was time to find a rich older man, preferably one who was going senile, a guy who could give her the financial security she would need to get through the years ahead.

  The extra twenty bucks from Irene Glasson hardly mattered, Daisy thought. She had been told to make the demand for money so the scene looked authentic. A reporter expected to pay for a tip.

  She stopped pacing and sat down on an empty crate to finish the cigarette.

  Somewhere in the darkness the thick floorboards groaned again. She shuddered and glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing to see except darkness and shadows.

  She checked her watch. She had arrived early, as instructed, after making the eleven thirty call from the last gas station phone booth on Miramar Road. The reporter would have to drive back through town, find Miramar Road, and then negotiate the dirt lane down the hillside to the warehouse. She wouldn’t be here for another half hour or so, maybe longer if she got lost.