by Amanda Quick
But there was another reason the other person might not want to assist in what would no doubt be a futile rescue effort. Perhaps he or she had been directly responsible for the death of the woman in the pool.
The thought that she might be trying to coax a killer out of hiding sent another jolt through Irene. She decided to make a run back to the side door.
But she had waited too long. Running footsteps sounded in the darkness, ringing and echoing off the tiled walls and floor. The other person was not fleeing the scene, Irene realized. Instead, he or she—it was impossible to tell which—was coming toward her.
Standing there in the glowing moonlight and silhouetted against the wall of glass doors behind her on the far side of the lap pool, she made an ideal target.
She kicked off her shoes, whirled around, and hurled her handbag across the narrow lap pool. She had spent her youth pitching hay and stacking firewood. She was tall for a woman, and the single life had kept her fit and strong. A lady on her own in the world could not afford the luxury of being delicate.
The handbag landed on the tiles on the opposite side of the pool with a solid thud.
She jumped into the water and started swimming. She would reach the opposite side within seconds. Unless the watcher followed her into the water, she would have a good chance of escape. There was no way the other person could get around either end of the pool in time to intercept her.
She was a good swimmer but her fashionable, wide-legged trousers were immediately transformed into lead weights. She swam harder, resisting the downward pull of the clothing.
It was not the first time that she had gone into water fully dressed. There had been a river near the farm where she was raised. Her grandfather had made certain that she learned how to swim almost as soon as she learned how to walk.
The knowledge that she was swimming over the body of the dead woman was unnerving, but not nearly as unnerving as the realization that she was probably being chased by a killer.
She reached the far side and dragged herself up out of the water. It took every ounce of strength she possessed, but she discovered that fear was a terrific motivator. She managed to scramble to her feet.
Breathless, she paused to look back. She saw no one in the shadows, but she heard rapid footsteps again. This time they were headed away from the pool. A short time later a door opened and closed on the far side of the spa chamber.
Irene gripped the handle of her handbag and hurried to the glass doors that fronted the spa. She fled into the moonlit gardens.
Once again she was running from the scene of a murder, running from a killer.
Just when she had begun to think that her new life in California might have a Hollywood ending.
Chapter 5
“Now that Detective Brandon and the officer have taken their leave, Miss Glasson, I think you and I should have a private conversation,” Oliver Ward said.
Irene considered her options. She had an uneasy feeling that her first choice—concocting an excuse to decline the chat—was not going to work. In her short time in California she had learned to expect the unexpected, and Oliver Ward definitely qualified as a disturbing example of the unexpected.
She glanced across the living room, gauging the distance between the big leather armchair in which she sat and the front door. She just might make it. She had one very big advantage—Ward had a bad leg. His gait was stiff and halting. He was forced to rely on a cane.
The cause of the injury was no secret. It was, in fact, something of a show business legend. Oliver Ward was once a world-famous magician who had performed amazing illusions at some of the biggest theaters in the United States. He had toured Europe. But two years ago things had gone terribly wrong. Ward was nearly killed in what proved to be his final performance. The disaster made headlines across the country. Blood on the Stage. Famous Magician Badly Injured in Front of Audience, May Not Survive.
What, precisely, had gone wrong had been a matter of conjecture in the press for months. All anyone knew for certain was that there had been real ammunition in the gun that was used in the illusion. Ward had steadfastly refused to give any interviews on the subject. After he was released from the hospital, he had seemingly vanished from the scene.
Tonight Irene discovered that he had gone into the hotel business.
At the moment, he was on the far side of the room, standing at an elegant black-lacquer liquor cabinet where he was in the process of pouring two whiskies. He appeared to be in excellent health but, given his serious limp, she was almost certain she could get to the door before he could.
It was, however, highly unlikely that she could escape the grounds without being stopped. Ward employed an impressive array of well-dressed security guards. Their evening uniforms consisted of black-and-white formal attire, but the good clothes did not disguise their muscular builds. Not that any of them had been around earlier in the spa when she could have used a little help.
Just like cops, she thought, never around when you needed one.
She abandoned the idea of making a dash for the door.
“It’s been a very trying night,” she said instead, striving to appear pathetic. She certainly looked the part, swathed in a thick spa robe with her hair bound up in a turban made from a hotel towel. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I would like to go back to the Cove Inn. I’ve got a room there. Perhaps we could talk in the morning?”
With a little luck she would be in her car, heading back to Los Angeles, before Ward realized she had left town.
“I’d prefer to have the conversation now,” he said.
She abandoned the pathetic approach and went for icy outrage.
“Detective Brandon declined to arrest me,” she said. “Most likely because I’m innocent. Are you planning to keep me here against my will? Because, if so, I would like to remind you that I am a member of the press. I’m sure you don’t want this scandal to get any bigger than it is already.”
All right, claiming to be a member of the press was pushing things a bit—technically she was a mere assistant at Whispers, a Hollywood gossip paper. But she was in Burning Cove with her editor’s approval, and she was on the trail of what she was sure would be a headline-making story—murder and scandal that involved a leading man who was considered by many to be the next Clark Gable.
A short time ago, Ward had summoned his manager and the head concierge. They had been instructed to do everything in their power to stanch rumors and speculation. Their primary job was to keep the press at bay. The fact that it was a reporter, or an aspiring reporter, who had found the body in the spa was going to be a very big problem for Oliver Ward.
She could expect threats, she thought, but Ward had to know it was unlikely that any force on earth could squelch the story of murder in his hotel spa. Furthermore, she doubted that Ward would want to add fuel to the fire by ordering his people to forcibly detain her—not in front of witnesses, at least.
Unfortunately, at the moment there were no witnesses. She was alone with Oliver Ward in the living room of his private villa, Casa del Mar.
“We both know that there is no avoiding the headlines,” Oliver said. He put the stopper back into the cut glass decanter. “The best I can do at this point is try to contain and control the story.”
“At least you are honest about your intentions. How do you intend to contain and control the scandal?”
He gave her a cool, assessing smile. “I’m working on that problem. Perhaps you can help me.”
“Why?”
“It would be in your own best interests.”
She managed what she hoped was a smile as cold as his own. “Threats, Mr. Ward?”
“I never make threats. Just statements of fact. I do have some questions I would like to ask before you leave here tonight.” Oliver picked up one of the glasses and turned to face her. “Save yourself the effort of
making a run for the front door. It’s true that I am no longer a working magician, but I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve. I’m not quite as slow as I appear.”
She believed him.
“I don’t care if you are the owner of this hotel, Mr. Ward,” she said. “You have no right to keep me a prisoner here.”
“I hope you will consider yourself my guest,” Oliver said. He gripped his cane and made his way across the living room. “You are, after all, sitting in my home, wearing a robe and slippers provided by my hotel.”
He stopped in front of her and held out the glass of whiskey. She was briefly distracted by the masculine grace of the gesture. In his hands the glass seemed to materialize out of thin air.
She looked up from the glass and found herself briefly ensnared by his compelling eyes. They were an unusual color—a feral shade of dark amber. She refused to admit that there was anything genuinely mesmeric about his gaze, but she was intensely aware of the sheer power of his will. She was dealing with a very intelligent, very coolheaded man. She was certain that once he settled on a goal or a course of action, it would be difficult—make that impossible—to distract him or turn him aside.
It wasn’t just his eyes that caught and held her attention. He was not handsome in the way of the leading men of the silver screen, but there was a certain kind of raw power about his boldly carved features, broad shoulders, and lean build. Oliver Ward possessed that magical quality called presence. No wonder he had been able to enthrall audiences.
Her first inclination was to refuse the whiskey. She needed to keep her wits about her. But her nerves deserved some consideration, she thought. The events in the spa had rattled her.
She took the whiskey and swallowed a healthy dose of the spirits. The stuff burned all the way down but it had a fortifying effect.
She immediately regretted the action because Oliver looked quietly pleased. Too late now, she decided. She took another sip.
Oliver went back across the room and picked up the other glass. He made his way to the big, heavily padded chair across from her and lowered himself into it. He stretched out his bad leg with some care.
“Tell me again how you managed to get access to my hotel,” he said.
“You heard me explain to Detective Brandon that Gloria Maitland asked me to meet her in the spa. She left my name at the front desk. I was her guest for the evening.”
“The guest of a woman who is now dead.”
“Are you implying I’m responsible? Detective Brandon certainly didn’t seem to think so.”
But she was clutching at straws now. Brandon had been summoned by the head of hotel security. He had arrived with an officer from the Burning Cove Police Department. It was obvious that the detective had been roused from his bed, but he was professional and polite.
Unfortunately, it had also been evident from the moment he arrived that he and Oliver Ward were well acquainted. Irene had no doubt but that Brandon would defer to Ward’s desire to try to contain the scandal. Burning Cove might be a small town, but it appeared to operate under L.A. rules—money and power controlled everything, including the local police.
“I checked with the front desk,” Oliver said. “While it’s true that Miss Maitland invited you here this evening, she failed to mention that you were a member of the press. Reporters are never allowed on the property.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Miss Maitland.”
“Who is now deceased. We keep coming back to that unpleasant fact, don’t we?”
“It’s not my fault that Gloria Maitland didn’t obey your rules,” Irene said. “And while we’re on the subject of security, it would appear that the Burning Cove Hotel has a few problems in that regard. A woman was murdered in your fancy spa tonight. That doesn’t make your security people look good, does it?”
“No,” Oliver conceded. “But the fact that you were the one who found the body doesn’t make you look good.” He paused a beat. “Some would say that makes you the primary suspect.”
Don’t panic, she thought. There will be plenty of time to do that later.
“I told Detective Brandon the truth,” she said, managing to keep her voice steady. “I’m a journalist. I had an appointment with Miss Maitland. She chose the time and the location.”
“You work for a Hollywood gossip sheet. I’m not sure that position entitles you to call yourself a journalist.”
“You are hardly in a position to lecture me on the subject of sensational headlines. You’re an ex-magician who built a name for himself by making exactly those kinds of headlines with your very daring performances. I’m sure that when you were touring you wanted all the newspaper coverage you could get.”
“I’m in a different profession these days.”
“We both know that your patrons don’t just come to the Burning Cove Hotel because they crave privacy. The actors and actresses book rooms here because they want to be seen checking in to such an exclusive establishment. The rich come because they want to rub shoulders with the famous and the infamous. Admit it, Mr. Ward, people are attracted to this hotel precisely because they want their names mentioned in the same breath as Hollywood royalty and wealthy tycoons and notorious gangsters. Your guests will do just about anything to be the subject of the kind of journalism that appears in Whispers.”
To her chagrin, Oliver inclined his head once in acknowledgment of the counterattack.
“That’s all true,” he said. “However, I’m sure you understand that the policy against allowing journalists onto the grounds is part of the illusion. Obviously, if I did let them wander around the hotel, it would no longer appear exclusive.”
“It’s all about appearances, then?”
“It’s all about maintaining the illusion, Miss Glasson.”
“What do you want from me, Mr. Ward?”
He turned the whiskey glass absently between his fingers.
“Tonight a woman died in my hotel under mysterious circumstances,” he said. “You claim that you had an appointment with her in the spa. That appointment was at a rather late hour.”
“A quarter past midnight. And it didn’t strike me as a strange time at all. It made perfect sense. Your hotel was in full swing at that hour. The lounge was crowded. People were dancing, drinking heavily, and no doubt meeting other people’s spouses and lovers in various rooms and pool cabanas. Gloria Maitland had every reason to think that no one would notice her slipping off to the spa for an interview with a journalist.”
“You seem to have a somewhat jaded view of what goes on here at the Burning Cove.”
Irene gave him her best you-can-trust-me, everything-is-off-the-record smile. “Care to set me straight?”
“I never discuss the personal lives of my guests.”
“Of course not.”
“I would like to know what you expected to learn from Maitland.”
“We’re back to that, are we?”
“I’m afraid so.”
There was something implacable about Oliver Ward. Short of screaming for help, she did not see an easy way out of the situation. Given that he owned the hotel and paid the salaries of everyone who worked there, she was not certain that screaming for help would be of much use.
It occurred to her that there was another angle to consider, as well. If there was one thing she had learned in her short career at Whispers, it was that two could play the information game.
Trying to give the impression that she was willing to humor him, she sank deeper into her chair. The effect of languid grace was somewhat marred because she had to fumble with the oversized robe to make certain that it did not fall open. She was not wearing anything underneath. All of her clothes had been handed off to the housekeeping department for cleaning and drying.
To his credit, Oliver’s fierce eyes never once dropped below her face. E
ither he was a real gentleman or he was not attracted to women, she thought. Her feminine intuition told her that the latter was not the case.
She decided there was a third possibility—he simply wasn’t interested in her.
“You heard me answer all of Detective Brandon’s questions,” she said. “Gloria Maitland phoned me long-distance at my office in L.A. yesterday. I might add that she reversed the charges. My boss was not pleased with that.”
“You told Detective Brandon that Maitland was vague about why she wanted to speak to you, yet you made the long drive from Los Angeles to keep the appointment.”
“She assured me that the gossip she had for me was very hot. To be honest, Mr. Ward, I could use a good story. I’m relatively new at Whispers. I’m trying to make my mark. If I don’t come up with a solid headline soon, I might be looking for other employment. All I can tell you is that I went to the spa a little after midnight, just as Gloria Maitland instructed. She was dead at the bottom of the pool when I arrived.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “You said someone else was there.”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure at first but then I heard the footsteps. Someone was running toward me. That made me very nervous. I went into the water to avoid him. That’s it. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
“You went into the water to avoid him.”
“Yes.”
“You told Detective Brandon that you weren’t sure if the other person was a man or a woman.”
“Sound echoes in your spa, Mr. Ward. Also, I couldn’t see anything clearly—just shadows. I can’t be absolutely certain whether it was a man or a woman who ran toward me. I have to admit I wasn’t paying close attention to the details.”
“But your first thought was that the other person was a man.”
Irene drank some more of her whiskey while she recalled the scene in the spa. She nodded once.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m almost sure of it.”
“What makes you almost sure?”
