Elena laughed. “Are you kidding? I was born and raised here. I love the light.”
Irene smiled. “I’m not from around here but I agree with you. I love the light, too. Oddly enough, not everyone does.”
She walked into Oliver’s office and closed the door behind her. He got to his feet.
“There you are,” he said. “I was about to go looking for you. Chester just briefed me on what he discovered about Atherton’s notebook. Those calculations are for a highly advanced version of a military device called a rangekeeper. Saltwood evidently has a secret contract with the Navy.”
“We’re talking about espionage?”
“That’s what it looks like. Chester agrees with the advice that Helen Spencer gave you in her letter, by the way. He says we’ll be asking for a lot of trouble if we contact the FBI.”
Irene shuddered. “We’ll become suspects in an espionage case.”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens. This thing just gets deeper and deeper, doesn’t it?”
“I think we’re finally able to put a few pieces of the puzzle together. Did Teddy help you locate Claudia Picton?”
“Teddy?”
“Sorry,” Oliver said. “He prefers his stage name. Mr. Fontaine. Occasionally I forget. To me he’ll always be Teddy, the guy who somehow got the whole show, crew, props, and equipment packed up and on the right train heading for the next town. The man’s brilliant when it comes to logistics.”
“Claudia was right where Mr. Fontaine said she would be at three fifteen—the tearoom. I was hoping to rattle her a bit but she didn’t tell me much. She did mention that Nick Tremayne was playing golf with a new acquaintance, someone he met at the hotel.”
“Who?”
“A Mr. Enright.”
Oliver sat down, looking thoughtful. “That is very interesting.”
“Why?” she asked, taking a seat.
“There is a Julian Enright of New York on my list.”
“A single man? Traveling alone?”
“Yes. A gentleman with expensive tastes and a sense of style—the sort of style that, I’m told, can only be acquired by someone who descends from several generations of moldy money. Mr. Fontaine was very impressed.”
“You didn’t point out this Julian Enright in the hotel restaurant last night.”
“He wasn’t there.” Oliver held up a list with four names on it. “Enright was one of the few who chose to dine in town.”
“‘A gentleman with expensive tastes and a sense of style,’” Irene repeated softly. “Doesn’t sound like a killer, does he?”
“Not the Hollywood movie version, perhaps. But do you think it’s possible that such a man might have succeeded in deceiving Helen Spencer?”
“Maybe. Why would a killer on a mission to recover the notebook take up with a hot Hollywood talent?”
“It’s quite possible that Enright is aware of your recent reporting.”
“So?”
“So, since you have helpfully laid the groundwork for pointing the finger of blame at Nick Tremayne in one recent death, why not use Tremayne as cover?”
“I don’t understand.”
“If something were to happen to you, Irene, who do you think would come under immediate suspicion?”
She caught her breath at the sheer audacity of the idea.
“Nick Tremayne,” she said. “Everyone knows he’s furious with me because of that piece I wrote for Whispers.”
“He might have a rock-solid alibi—enough to keep him from going to jail—but that wouldn’t matter in the court of public opinion. I wouldn’t be surprised if the murder of a certain reporter here in Burning Cove where Tremayne just happens to be vacationing might be too much for even a powerful studio to handle—especially if the murder was staged so that it was clear it was no accident.”
A vision of Helen Spencer’s bloody corpse flashed into Irene’s mind. Her fingers trembled.
“Perception is everything,” she said. “There would be a huge scandal, lots of speculation and gossip. And while all that was going on, the real killer would quietly vanish from the scene. It’s a stunning idea.”
“Damned brilliant piece of misdirection when you think about it.”
“It certainly worked in Helen’s murder. The police assumed from the outset that they were looking for an insane killer.”
“A criminally insane private secretary, to be specific,” Oliver said.
“No need to remind me. Such a scheme also fits with your sense of the killer’s arrogance.”
“Yes, but if we’re right, that arrogance is the plan’s fatal flaw.”
“At least we know the identity of Helen’s killer.”
“We may know it,” Oliver said. “We need to be certain. Did you get Claudia Picton to say anything else?”
“Well, she raised the specter of the mysterious Mr. Ogden again.”
“Men like Ernie Ogden usually resort to cash payments when they want to make problems disappear. But if money doesn’t do the job, he wouldn’t hesitate to apply brute force to clean up a mess.”
“I’ve been focused on Nick Tremayne from the start because of Peggy’s notes. But what if she was wrong? Do you think that Ogden might go so far as to have someone murder a woman if he thought she was a threat to his star?”
“If he couldn’t bribe her or frighten her, it’s conceivable,” Oliver said. “But I knew Daisy Jennings. Pell knew her, too. Both of us are convinced that money would have worked. There was no reason to murder her to keep her quiet.”
“Unless she knew something about Nick Tremayne that was so damaging that Ogden didn’t want to take any chances. What if she could implicate Tremayne in Gloria Maitland’s murder?”
“Yeah, that might be enough for Ogden to send in the heavy muscle. But if that’s true, it means the studio considers Tremayne absolutely crucial to the bottom line.”
“I can tell you one thing: Bribery wouldn’t have worked with Peggy Hackett.”
“You’re sure?”
“Peggy was trying to get her career back on track,” Irene said. “She wasn’t after money. She wanted a headline.”
“Get anything else from Picton?”
“She warned me that Ogden can be ruthless. It’s obvious she’s scared of him. She also said she’s decided she’s not cut out for Hollywood or Burning Cove. She just wants to get enough money together to go home, get a job, and get married.”
“Married?”
“Married. Ever tried it?”
“No,” Oliver said. “Came close once upon a time. Got engaged. But it didn’t work out. You?”
“Same story. I thought I was going to marry someone once. But it didn’t work out.”
“The lying, cheating bastard you mentioned in the prop locker?”
“He neglected to mention that he was engaged to someone. When his fiancée informed me of the facts, the lying, cheating bastard thought it was odd that I didn’t want to play the part of his mistress.”
Oliver nodded with a sage air. “Yeah, that lying and cheating stuff will ruin a perfectly good relationship every time.”
Irene propped her elbows on the arms of her chair and put her fingertips together.
“You speak from personal experience, I assume?” she said.
“I do. She was one of my assistants. Ran off with a man I considered a trusted employee. He handled the bookings, ticket sales, and advance publicity for the act.”
“I see.”
“They eloped to Hawaii.”
“Very romantic.” Irene tapped her fingertips together once. “Costs money to travel all the way to Hawaii by steamship or airplane. And then there’s the price of a hotel room. You must have paid your staff well.”
“I like to think so, but evidently Dora and Hubert didn’t agree. On
their way out the door, they helped themselves to the cash receipts from nearly two months of performances.”
“Given that the Amazing Oliver Ward usually played to packed houses, that would have been a tidy sum.”
“It was,” Oliver said. “They sent me a postcard from Hawaii apologizing and explaining that they could not deny their hearts. Said they hoped I would understand.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Irene said. “At least the card didn’t say wish you were here.”
Oliver surprised her with a grin. “Thanks for putting things into perspective. Did you get any revenge?”
“Of the petty sort. The company was in a fierce bidding war with a competitor. The deal involved obtaining the license on a patented device used in the oil business. The lying, cheating bastard was in charge of negotiating the licensing agreement. But I was the one who had done all of the background research. I assembled all the necessary facts and figures. I was about to put everything together in a neat, tidy report for the lying, cheating bastard when the fiancée stopped by the office to inform me of the reality of my situation.”
“Can I assume that something dire happened to the neat, tidy report?”
“Nothing at all happened to it because it never came into existence. That was the beauty of my revenge, you see. On my way out the door I dropped the file with all the raw data on the lying, cheating bastard’s desk. I knew he wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails out of my notes. They were all in shorthand—my own private version.”
Oliver smiled. “They might as well have been written in a secret code.”
“As for the figures, well, he was the first to admit that he never did have a head for numbers.”
“I’m guessing the deal fell through?”
“The rival company obtained the license to the device.”
“Was the lying, cheating bastard fired?” Oliver asked.
“Of course not. His fiancée was the daughter of the owner of the company, and she was determined to marry the lying, cheating bastard. The fiancée was daddy’s little girl, so the lying, cheating bastard got promoted to vice president.”
“Naturally.”
“I’ve heard that revenge rarely works out well. Last I heard the bastard and his wife were living happily ever after somewhere in Connecticut. A real Hollywood ending.”
“I doubt it.”
“So do I,” Irene said. “Truth be told, I even feel sorry for her. After all, she married a lying, cheating bastard.”
“People don’t change. They are what they are.”
“That’s my theory, too,” Irene said.
Chapter 49
The dance floor of the Paradise Club was crowded with men in expensively cut dinner jackets and women in delicate gowns. The members of the orchestra, sharply dressed in white coats and black bow ties, were playing a popular number.
The booth where Irene sat with Oliver was one of many similarly intimate seating arrangements scattered around the room. There was a martini in front of Oliver and a pink lady in front of Irene but the glasses were still full. They had not come here to enjoy themselves, Irene thought. They were here so that Oliver could get a closer look at Julian Enright.
She was very conscious of the shadows that cloaked the club. The low, floor-level lighting and the candles on the tables were designed to enhance the intimate atmosphere.
The high backs and the semicircular design of the upholstered booths ensured privacy for the couples that occupied them, but they also made it impossible to see most of the other club patrons once they were seated.
Irene leaned forward and lowered her voice. “How will we know if Enright and Tremayne show up?”
“Don’t worry, Nick Tremayne is a rising movie star,” Oliver said. “Stars don’t walk into a nightclub, they make entrances.”
“While trying to give the impression that they don’t want to be noticed,” Irene concluded. “But maybe he’ll decide to come alone.”
“Stars don’t go out to fashionable nightclubs alone, either.”
“I agree that’s generally how it works in Hollywood but Enright might not want the attention.”
“If he was concerned about being noticed, he wouldn’t have become Tremayne’s pal.”
Irene considered that briefly. “I can’t argue with that logic. But it sure seems strange that a killer would want so much attention.”
“Who says professional killers can’t be just as vain as movie stars? Besides, if Enright is planning to use Tremayne as cover, he has no choice but to get close to him.”
Luther Pell materialized out of the shadows. He smiled at Irene, a gleam of masculine appreciation in his eyes.
“You look lovely tonight,” he said.
She smiled. “Thank you.”
Oliver frowned. “Any sign of Tremayne and Enright?”
“That’s what I came to tell you,” Luther said. “They just arrived. I’ve arranged for them to be seated at one of the star booths that borders the dance floor.”
“Star booth?” Irene said.
“We reserve the tables around the dance floor for patrons we know want to be seen,” Luther explained. “You’ll have a good view of Tremayne and Enright. If either of them leaves the club for any reason, one of my security people will keep an eye on him. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks,” Oliver said, his tone a little gruff. “We’ll do that.”
Luther’s mouth kicked up in an amused smile. He moved on to greet another couple in a nearby booth, playing the gracious nightclub host to the hilt.
Irene glared at Oliver. “He’s not flirting with me, you know. He’s just being polite. I’m sure he tells all of the women who come to his club that they look nice.”
“Probably.” Oliver did not sound convinced. “Here come Tremayne and Enright.”
“Fine. Change the subject. See if I care.”
His jaw tensed.
“I was just teasing you,” she said.
“I know,” he muttered.
He wasn’t really jealous, she thought; he was just feeling a little possessive. Men got that way when they were sleeping with a woman. It was a perfectly natural, perfectly temporary, perfectly superficial masculine response. It didn’t imply a deeper, more abiding emotion.
It occurred to her that she would be irritated if one of the glamorous women in the room happened to stop by to tell Oliver that he looked very attractive tonight. A perfectly natural, temporary, superficial female response. It didn’t imply a deeper, more abiding emotion.
Heaven help her if it did.
Before she could reflect on that realization, she saw Nick Tremayne and Julian Enright.
“You were right,” she said. “Here they come, and it would be hard to miss them.”
The two men were escorted down an aisle by the maître d’. A subtle beam of light appeared as if by magic. It lingered lovingly on Nick Tremayne. Enright was careful to remain a few steps behind the star, as if he didn’t want to steal the scene, but he managed to catch the spotlight for a brief moment. In those few seconds his hair glowed gold and his square-jawed profile drew the eye. Irene heard a low buzz of excitement rise and fall in the shadows as the crowd became aware of the new arrivals.
“So that’s him,” Irene whispered.
“Yes,” Oliver said.
“He looks—”
“Handsome? Polished? Sophisticated?”
“Actually, I was thinking that he looks like a movie star.”
The pair was seated in one of the booths that ringed the dance floor. The maître d’ raised his hand in a signal. A cocktail waitress arrived with a tray of drinks. She set the glasses down on the table in front of the men and gracefully departed.
The spotlight dimmed but there was no doubt that everyone in the club knew that Nick Tremayne and his
friend had arrived.
“Now what?” Irene said.
“Now we wait,” Oliver said.
He fell silent.
Irene looked at him. “We should probably look as if we’re having a normal conversation.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“There’s always the weather.”
“Sure,” Oliver said. He did not take his eyes off Tremayne and Enright. “Or we could talk about what you’re going to do when this situation is finished.”
“We could,” she agreed. She felt as if she were walking across a frozen lake. One misstep and she would fall into the icy depths.
He waited a moment. When she didn’t say anything else, he took his eyes off Tremayne and Enright long enough to shoot her a wary look.
“Well?” he said.
She moved a hand in a small gesture that she hoped appeared casual, as if the answer to the question was of only mild interest.
“I suppose it all depends on what happens here in Burning Cove,” she said. “If we can prove that Tremayne killed Gloria Maitland and maybe implicate him in Peggy’s death, and if Enright gets arrested for Helen’s murder, I will have a brilliant career in journalism ahead of me. But if we can’t prove anything, I’ll have to change my name again, come up with a new identity, and find another job.”
“My hotel can always use the services of a skilled secretary,” Oliver said, his tone utterly neutral.
“You’ve got Elena.”
“Yes, and I’m not about to replace her. She’s terrific. But there are other departments that could use a person who is skilled in organizing files and typing. Also, we frequently get calls from guests who want to employ a secretary for one reason or another while they’re staying at the hotel.”
“But I would be working for you,” Irene said.
“Got a problem with that?”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”
“Why?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? I learned the hard way that it’s not a good idea to sleep with the boss. And I’m sure you learned that it’s not a good idea to have an affair with one of your employees. Or have you forgotten that postcard from Hawaii?”