“Miss Glasson already knew that much.”
Chester did not look up from the article. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. It’s just the usual Hollywood gossip.”
“Except for the reporter’s speculation about the possibility of murder.”
“Except for that part. Where’s the stuff about how the reporter had to jump into the pool to escape the killer?”
“She left out that bit of drama.”
Chester frowned. “Wonder why?”
“Probably because she wants to keep the attention on the death of Gloria Maitland. She’s convinced it was murder.”
“Why is she so determined to prove it? Just to get the story?”
“I don’t think so.” He had been asking himself the same question since Irene Glasson had landed, soaking wet, in his otherwise well-organized, well-controlled world. “Got a feeling there’s more to it than that. She says she needs the story in order to keep her job, but I have a hunch that she’s got another reason. Something personal.”
“Something personal involving murder? That strikes me as peculiar.”
“Strikes me the same way.”
“Well, you’re usually damned good at reading people.”
“I’ve been known to make mistakes,” Oliver reminded him grimly.
“True, but I think that in this case the odds are excellent that you’re right.” Chester read some more of the article. “Says here that the hotel management is expected to go to great lengths to suppress any whisper of murder in order to avoid a scandal.”
“Strangely enough, I don’t think she believed me when I told her that I intend to find out exactly what happened to Maitland.”
Chester tossed the paper aside. “Miss Glasson doesn’t know you very well.”
“No,” Oliver said, “she doesn’t.”
“As if you’d let someone get away with murder right here on the grounds of your own hotel.”
“Damn right. The Burning Cove doesn’t set a very high bar when it comes to the behavior expected of its guests, but management does frown on murder.”
“Got to have some standards,” Chester said.
“Right. Besides, murder is bad for business.”
“When the Amazing Oliver Ward Show was touring, we used to say that any publicity was good publicity so long as it mentioned the next appearance.”
“We’re not on the road anymore.”
Chester took off his spectacles and began to polish the lenses with a large handkerchief. “No one’s got a better eye for detail than you do. Part of what made you a good magician. What do you think happened in that spa chamber last night?”
“I took another look around this morning. It’s just barely possible that Gloria Maitland slipped on the tiles at the edge of the pool and somehow managed to hit the back of her head and tumble into the water, but I doubt that’s what happened. The angle of the blow makes it a lot more likely that she was struck from behind. Probably knocked out cold. I’d say that she fell into the water and drowned.”
“So she was murdered.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
Chester’s bushy gray brows climbed. “Any chance it was the reporter lady who did it?”
“If I were a cop, I’d consider Miss Glasson an excellent suspect. She admitted that she had a private late-night meeting with the victim. Also, she’s strong for a woman. She could have overpowered Gloria Maitland.”
“What makes you say Glasson is strong?”
“She was able to swim across the pool fully dressed. Granted, she had the sense to get rid of her shoes first; still, swimming in a pair of women’s trousers wouldn’t have been easy. Lot of heavy fabric. Then she managed to haul herself up out of the water when she reached the opposite side. There was something else, as well.”
“What?”
“She had a large handbag. Looked a bit like a small version of a doctor’s medical bag.”
“What about it? Women usually carry a handbag.”
“She hurled it across the lap pool before she went into the water.”
“Huh.” Chester reflected briefly. “You think it’s odd that she didn’t just drop the handbag when she kicked off her shoes, don’t you?”
“I think there was something very important inside that handbag.”
“Money, probably, as well as the usual fripperies women carry around.”
“Whatever it was, it was so important that she made a point of trying to save it before she went into the water.” Oliver paused, thinking. “It looked heavy.”
“The handbag?” Chester grimaced. “In my experience the average woman’s bag is as heavy as one of my tool kits. Anything else strike you?”
“Lots of things. Irene Glasson is shaping up to be a regular mystery woman. I heard her give Brandon her address in L.A. and the name of her landlady.”
“And?”
“I called the landlady this morning. Said I was a relative who was hoping to speak to my long-lost cousin. The landlady didn’t seem to know much about Irene Glasson, just that she had appeared on the doorstep a few months ago, looking to rent an apartment. She had enough money for the first month’s rent so the landlady didn’t ask a lot of questions.”
“Did you call the Whispers office?”
“Sure. Got right through to the editor, Velma Lancaster, who confirmed that Miss Glasson works for her, but that was about all she said. She sounded worried. When I told her who I was, she got even more nervous.”
“That’s no surprise. So, what it boils down to is that you really didn’t learn much about Miss Glasson.”
“Irene Glasson does not appear to have a past. All the evidence indicates that her life began four months ago when she showed up in L.A.”
“She wouldn’t be the first person to arrive in California looking for a fresh start. Take yourself, for example, and me, and most of the people who worked in the Amazing Oliver Ward Show.”
“Yeah. For example. But we all have pasts. Irene Glasson doesn’t.”
Chester’s expression tightened with concern. “You think she’s going to be trouble, don’t you?”
“She already is trouble. The question is, what do I do about her? Damned if I’ll let her destroy this hotel. Every nickel I’ve got is tied up in this place.”
“You’ve got a plan?”
“The plan is to figure out what happened to Gloria Maitland.”
Chester eyed him with a shrewd look. “What else do you have in mind?”
“I’d really like to know what Irene Glasson has inside her handbag.”
Chapter 7
“The Maitland bitch wasn’t supposed to become a problem.” Nick Tremayne tossed the copy of Whispers down on the table. “What the hell went wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Claudia Picton clutched her notebook to her bosom and tried to contain her anxiety. Her job depended on keeping the star calm. “Mr. Ogden assured me that everything was under control.”
Nick stabbed an accusing finger at her.
“Well, that’s not the case, is it?” he said. “The piece in Whispers says that Maitland and I were rumored to have had an affair and that I’d recently ended the romance. Everyone who reads that story will assume that Maitland followed me here to Burning Cove. That she threatened to make trouble for me. And it’s all true, damn it. Talk about a motive for murder.”
“I’m sure everything will be all right,” Claudia said. She was practically pleading now. “The police are calling Miss Maitland’s death a tragic accident. No one has labeled it murder.”
“No one except a third-rate gossip rag. That’s all it takes.”
“I telephoned Mr. Ogden again a few minutes ago,” Claudia said, striving for a soothing tone. “He said there’s nothing to be concerned about. He said you are to go on with your vacation here
in Burning Cove as though nothing happened. He says if you check out before you were scheduled to leave, it will only stir up more speculation.”
Nick gave her a savage glare and then stalked across the villa’s main room, stopping at the glass doors that opened onto a private patio.
The outdoor sitting area was enclosed with a walled garden. A sweeping view of the cove and the Pacific Ocean beyond was visible through the decorative wrought iron. The glare of the light dancing and flashing on the surface of the water was so bright it hurt Claudia’s eyes.
The knowledge that Nick was seething was more than enough to tighten her already strained nerves to the breaking point. She had a job that almost any other woman in America would gladly have sold her soul to obtain—she was Nick Tremayne’s personal assistant. If only those other women knew the truth. Her dream job had become a nightmare.
He had been a supporting player in his first film, Sea of Shadows, but he managed to steal every scene in which he appeared. He’d been cast as the lead in his second film, Fortune’s Rogue. The movie catapulted him to instant stardom. The gossip magazines couldn’t get enough of him. Female fans adored him. There were rumors that Stanley Bancroft, the star who had been expected to get top billing in the film, was drinking heavily and turning to cocaine to alleviate his depression.
“Ogden was supposed to deal with Maitland before she made real trouble,” Nick said.
He gazed grimly at the view through the open doors. Claudia watched him carefully, trying to gauge his mood. Stars were notoriously temperamental and Nick Tremayne was no exception. The disconcerting thing was that he could switch from laughter to rage in the blink of an eye. It was part of his talent but it was also unnerving.
“Mr. Ogden said that he gave Miss Maitland the money she demanded,” Claudia said. “He was certain that she would disappear.”
“But she didn’t disappear, did she?” Nick did not turn around. “Instead she followed me here to Burning Cove. And now she’s dead and that damned reporter from Whispers has as good as implied I’m a murderer.”
“Mr. Ogden said the hotel management would protect you from the press. The studio will take care of everything else.”
“Easy for Ogden to say. It’s not his future on the line. What am I supposed to do for the next two weeks? Hang around the hotel pool and drink martinis while I duck the press? Or maybe I should schedule a massage. That would certainly make for some interesting gossip, don’t you think? I can see the headline. Actor Enjoys Attentions of Lovely Masseuse in Spa Where His Lover Drowned.”
“I’m sure everything will be all right. Mr. Ogden will deal with the police and the hotel management. He’ll take care of the editor of Whispers, too. That’s his job. The studio pays him to fix problems like this. He knows what he’s doing. I’m sure he’s handled far worse situations.”
“Worse than an accusation of murder?” Nick swung around. “Ogden is powerful in L.A., but we’re in Burning Cove. Things may be different here.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” Claudia said quickly. “Money talks and Mr. Ogden has the resources of the studio behind him. He can buy off the L.A. police and judges. He can certainly afford the Burning Cove cops.”
“I refuse to sit here in this villa while that Whispers reporter sabotages my career. I’ve worked too hard to get this far. Damned if I’ll stand by and let that Glasson bitch destroy me.”
Claudia clenched her fingers very tightly around her notebook. “What do you want me to do?”
Nick looked at her with blazing eyes. Unlike many of Hollywood’s leading men who got by on their looks and minimal talent, Nick was a genuinely gifted actor. He was endowed with an uncanny ability to project a variety of emotions ranging from smoldering passion to bone-chilling fury. It didn’t hurt that he was breathtakingly handsome with a classically carved jaw, high cheekbones, and a trim, athletic physique. His dark hair was cut in the sleek, brushed-back style made fashionable by the likes of Cary Grant and Clark Gable. It gleamed with just the right amount of hair oil.
The camera loved Nick. So did directors. So did women.
Claudia was starting to think that women might prove to be Nick’s downfall. The Hollywood magazines called him irresistible and he had begun to believe his own press. The result was a string of one-night flings and short-lived affairs. It had been inevitable that sooner or later a problem like Gloria Maitland would occur.
“According to the rumors flying around this hotel, the reporter who wrote that story for Whispers is still here in town,” Nick said.
He sounded thoughtful now.
“That’s right,” Claudia said, relieved that he appeared to be calming down. “Mr. Ogden gave me the details. He got them from the local chief of police. Miss Glasson is registered at the Cove Inn.”
“Talk to her,” Nick said. “Offer her an exclusive.”
Shocked, Claudia stared at him. “I don’t understand. What kind of exclusive?”
“An exclusive interview with me, you stupid woman. She’ll jump at the opportunity to have a private conversation with Nick Tremayne. Any reporter would, especially under these circumstances.”
Claudia swallowed hard. “Do you think that’s wise? Mr. Ogden instructed me to keep you away from the press.”
“Ogden is in L.A. I’m the one here in Burning Cove. It’s my career at stake. I’ll deal with the problem. Make that appointment for today.”
She wanted to argue with him. The thought of going against Ogden’s orders terrified her. But Nick Tremayne could easily get her fired if he decided that he didn’t want her around.
It dawned on her that the idea of an exclusive interview just might work. Nick could certainly turn on the charm when it suited him. There was no reason to think that he could not manipulate Irene Glasson.
“I’ll contact her right away,” she said.
She whirled around and rushed toward the front door of the villa.
When she was safely outside, she stopped and took several deep breaths of the warm, fragrant air. There had been a little fog earlier but it had been burned off by the late-September sun. Now the sky was an unreal shade of blue.
When her nerves had settled down, she made her way along a flagstone path that wound through the lush gardens of the hotel. Nick had one of the private villas, Casa de Oro, but her room was in the main building. The villas, with their secluded patios and gardens and dramatic views, were reserved for the stars and others willing to pay top dollar for luxury and privacy.
The Burning Cove Hotel crowned a gently rising hillside above the rocky cliffs. At the foot of the cliffs, splashing waves churned up white froth on a pristine beach. The main building and the villas were all constructed in a fantasy version of what they called the Spanish colonial revival style of architecture. From what she had seen, the entire town—houses, hotels, shops, even the post office and the gas stations—had been built according to the same set of design rules. White stucco walls, red tile roofs, charming shaded courtyards, and covered walkways were everywhere.
Burning Cove was a Hollywood movie set of a town, she thought. And just like a movie, you never really knew what was going on behind the scenes.
She decided that she hated the place.
Chapter 8
“We scooped every paper in town with the Maitland story,” Velma Lancaster said. The words crackled a little over the phone line. “But by now half the reporters in Los Angeles will be on the way to Burning Cove. You need to get me a follow-up headline for tomorrow’s morning edition.”
Irene winced and held the phone away from her ear. When Velma got excited she tended to talk very, very fast and she got very, very loud. She was definitely excited this morning. Gloria Maitland’s death with its connection to Nick Tremayne and a legendary hotel known to be the haunt of Hollywood royalty was the biggest story Whispers had ever printed. Velma had just spent five minutes of lon
g-distance phone time emphasizing that it was also the most dangerous.
Forty-something and constructed along Amazonian proportions, Velma had taken control of the sleepy little paper two years earlier when her much older husband had collapsed and died at his desk. Irene had no difficulty summoning up a mental image of her new employer. An outsized woman with a personality to match, Velma colored her hair scarlet red and styled it in a short, sharply angled bob that had gone out of fashion several years earlier. She wore exotically patterned caftans, smoked cigars, and kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of her desk.
“Don’t worry,” Irene said. “I’m working on a headline for you.”
She lowered her voice because she was using the front desk phone in the lobby of the Cove Inn. Mildred Fordyce, the gray-haired proprietor, was puttering around behind the counter, doing her best to make it appear that she wasn’t paying attention, but Irene knew she was hanging on every word.
“Call me as soon as you have something I can print,” Velma rasped.
“I will but it’s not going to be easy,” Irene said. “The Burning Cove Hotel has tighter security than most banks.”
“So what? Banks get robbed all the time. Do your job.”
“Yes, Boss. But there’s another problem—”
“Now what?”
“I only planned to spend one night here in Burning Cove,” Irene said. Automatically she glanced down at the calf-length skirt and flutter-sleeved blouse she was wearing. “I just brought a single change of clothes with me. Housekeeping at the Burning Cove Hotel took the things I was wearing last night when I went into the pool. I haven’t seen them since. I’m not sure if they survived.”
“Reversing the charges for phone calls is one thing. But if you think I’m going to pay for a new wardrobe, you can think again. Go rob a bank.”
Time to play her high card, Irene decided. “This is about Peggy, Boss. Her death wasn’t an accident. We both know that.”
There was a short, taut silence on the other end of the line.