The Girl Who Knew Too Much

by Amanda Quick

  It wasn’t entirely an act, Oliver thought. It was clear that she was curious about Luther but it was also plain that she wasn’t falling under his spell. That was interesting because Luther was very good at charming others, especially women, when it suited him. Very few looked beneath the surface.

  Oliver had long ago concluded that the real Luther Pell was revealed in the dark seascapes that hung on the wall. He found it interesting that Irene had cast several covert glances at the paintings as if she was searching for something in them.

  Pell was tall and lean. His jet-black hair was cut in the sleek, discreetly oiled Hollywood style—parted on the side and combed straight back. He was a well-educated man with wide-ranging interests. He could converse on almost any subject—the latest books, the economy, the news, or the results of a recent polo match—with an easy, polished manner.

  It was obvious that he was as curious about Irene as she was about him, but Luther wasn’t making any progress getting past her invisible defenses. For some reason Oliver found that both entertaining and gratifying.

  There was nothing more intriguing than a woman with secrets, he thought, and Pell was definitely intrigued. We both are, Oliver thought. The hot flash of possessiveness that burned through him caught him off guard. Damned if he would let Pell be successful where he, himself, had failed. I’m going to be the man who solves the mystery.

  He suppressed his unexpectedly fierce reaction with an act of will, but the fact that he’d even experienced the electrifying heat left him bemused.

  “Enough about me, Mr. Pell,” Irene said. “I’m just a journalist working a story. Mr. Ward said that you had agreed to answer a few questions about Nick Tremayne.”

  Oliver had been about to drink some of the martini. He paused and lowered the glass.

  “Oliver,” he said.

  Irene glanced at him, bewildered. “What?”

  “My name is Oliver,” he said.

  “Oh, right.” Irene flushed and turned back to Luther. “About my questions, Mr. Pell.”

  Luther smiled. Oliver swallowed a groan. The smile was just as much an illusion as the Lady Vanishes in the Mirror act that had been a signature of the Amazing Oliver Ward Show.

  “I understand that you want to know if I can vouch for Tremayne’s alibi,” Luther said. “He’s letting it be known that he was here in my club at the time Miss Maitland died.”

  “That’s right.” Irene set her pink lady on a table, opened her large handbag, and removed a notebook and pencil. “The police have established that Gloria Maitland died sometime between eleven forty-five and about twelve fifteen, which is when I found the body.”

  Luther eyed the notebook. “You do realize that by answering your questions, I’m doing a favor for Ward.”

  Irene hesitated, wary now. “A favor?”

  Luther’s smile got a little brighter. “He’ll owe me one in return.”

  Irene looked at Oliver. “Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Oliver said. “Stop teasing the lady, Pell. Answer her questions so that we can finish our drinks and have dinner.”

  “Very well.” Luther turned back to Irene. “But I want to make it clear that anything I say is off the record.”

  Irene’s mouth tightened. “If you insist.”

  “I’m afraid I must. I’m a businessman, Miss Glasson. I can’t afford to make any more enemies. I’ve got enough as it is. If my name shows up in your paper in a story that hurts my club, I’ll make sure that Whispers goes out of business before the ink is dry.”

  Irene gave him an icy smile. “I understand, Mr. Pell. I’ll add your name to the list of people who have threatened to destroy Whispers.”

  Luther’s black brows rose. “Is it a long list?”

  “And getting longer by the minute. Which tells me that I’m on the right track.”

  “No, Miss Glasson. It tells you that you are putting your hand into a bag that may be filled with rattlesnakes.”

  “Don’t waste your time trying to scare her,” Oliver said. “It won’t work. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  Luther exhaled slowly. “I see. Well, in that case, I’ll tell you what I can, Miss Glasson, but I don’t think it will do you much good. According to my security staff, Tremayne arrived around ten last night. He had evidently spent the earlier part of the evening at the Carousel.”

  “What’s that?” Irene asked.

  “It’s a former speakeasy just outside of town. The owner runs an illegal casino disguised as a private club. In addition to liquor and gambling, the management also provides other forms of entertainment aimed at the gentlemen’s market.”

  “Prostitutes?”

  “As I was saying, my boys tell me Tremayne was at the Carousel before he showed up here.”

  “All right.” Irene made a few quick notes. “Please go on.”

  “Tremayne had obviously been drinking when he arrived. My bartenders tell me he drank steadily throughout the evening, danced with every attractive woman in the room, and seemed to enjoy the entertainment.”

  Irene looked up quickly. “Are you saying that he was in sight of one of your people at all times?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?” Irene demanded.

  “As far as I can determine, none of my people actually saw Tremayne between approximately eleven forty-five and twelve thirty.”

  Irene tensed. “He disappeared?”

  “That’s a matter of interpretation.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “When he returned to the bar to order another drink, there was a woman with him. Both were somewhat . . . disheveled.”

  Irene got a blank expression. “Disheveled? As if they had been involved in some sort of violence? I never considered the possibility that there might have been two people in the spa last night.”

  Oliver stifled a small sigh. Irene was so obsessed with proving that murder had been done that she had missed Luther’s attempt to be diplomatic.

  Luther caught his eye, one brow cocked inquiringly. Oliver shook his head and gave him a don’t-expect-any-help-from-me, I’m-just-a-bystander look.

  Amused, Luther turned back to Irene.

  “The lady’s hair was mussed and her lipstick was smeared. The back of her dress was partially unfastened. Tremayne had a smudge of lipstick on the side of his face. His hair was tousled. His tie was undone. Allowances should be made, however. It isn’t easy to tie a bow tie without a mirror.”

  Irene flushed. “I see. In other words, Nick Tremayne and the lady were out in the garden during the time frame when no one saw them inside the club.”

  “Yes,” Luther said.

  Irene tapped her pencil against the notebook and looked grim. “I was so sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” Luther said.

  He said it almost gently, as though he genuinely regretted not being of more assistance.

  Oliver set his unfinished drink aside, tightened his grip on his cane, and moved to stand at the window. He looked down into the walled garden. Although there were lights scattered around the enclosed space, the thick foliage created deep pockets of shadow.

  It would be so easy to disappear into the darkness, he thought. It was emerging back into the light that was the hard part.

  “Mr. Ward?” Irene said rather sharply. “Oliver? Is something wrong?”

  He refocused on the problem of how to pull off the illusion.

  “It wouldn’t be all that difficult to get out of this garden by going over the wall or even through the delivery gate at the rear,” he said.

  Irene moved quickly to stand beside him. Luther approached from the opposite side. Together the three of them looked down into the shadows.

  “It’s really quite dark in several places along the wall, isn’t it?” Irene
said. There was a thread of excitement in her voice. “Tremayne appears to be a physically fit man. I’ll bet he could climb over it.”

  “Probably not without the aid of a rope or ladder, but it wouldn’t be hard to get hold of one or the other,” Oliver said. “I imagine there are any number of handy items available in the gardening shed.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s true,” Luther said. For the first time he sounded troubled. “But the delivery gate is always locked when not in use.”

  Oliver glanced at him. “Keys are easy enough to snag and replace, as I discovered last night at the spa.”

  Luther grimaced. “There is also the faint but very real possibility that Tremayne managed to persuade someone on my staff to assist him.”

  “So there are ways he could have escaped this club without being seen,” Irene said.

  Oliver looked at Luther and then turned back to Irene. “As a rule, Luther and I have a problem keeping would-be trespassers such as the press and party crashers out of our establishments. Our guests certainly aren’t prisoners. Our security is designed to protect them, not keep them from escaping.”

  “Regardless of how he got out, it would only take a few minutes for Tremayne to drive to the hotel and back, right?” Irene said.

  Luther looked at Oliver and then shrugged. “It would be tight but I suppose it could be done. It would take some advance planning, though.”

  Irene confronted them, her notebook tightly clutched in one hand. Her eyes were brilliant with a feverish excitement. A whisper of dread ignited Oliver’s senses. If she keeps this up, she’s going to get herself killed.

  But he could not think of any way to stop her.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Luther swallowed some of his martini and assumed a thoughtful air. “He’d need a car.”

  Irene frowned. “He has one. I checked. He drove his own vehicle here to Burning Cove.”

  “Tremayne left his car with the valet attendants,” Luther said. “He did not ask to have his vehicle brought around until after three in the morning.”

  “He could have had another car waiting in a side street,” Irene said quickly.

  “True,” Luther conceded. “But even if you are correct, you’re forgetting the lady, the one who came in from the garden with him looking as if she had been enjoying a romantic interlude.”

  “I need to talk to her,” Irene said. “You must know her name and where I can find her.”

  “Daisy Jennings,” Luther said. “And before you ask, she’s a regular. Likes to rub shoulders with the Hollywood crowd. She’s a stunner, and both men and women enjoy her company. I have no objection to her as a customer. But if you’re right about Tremayne’s activities last night, it means that he persuaded Daisy to help him with his story. If that’s the case, you can bet that she’ll tell you exactly what Tremayne and his studio want her to tell you.”

  “You mean they’ll pay her to lie to me.”

  “Or they’ll threaten her,” Oliver said evenly. “Or Tremayne will make it clear that she will no longer be allowed inside his circle of party friends if she doesn’t cooperate. One way or another, I doubt that you’ll get the truth from her.”

  Luther looked thoughtful. “I would remind both of you that Tremayne’s story might be the truth. Maybe he really was out in the garden with Daisy Jennings during that forty-five-minute window of time. Regardless, Oliver’s right, Miss Glasson. You’ll only get the story that Tremayne and his studio want you to hear.”

  Irene contemplated the view of the gardens. “There might be another way to find out if Tremayne left this place last night. If he parked another car on a side street, someone might have noticed it. After all, he would have had to park it again near the hotel before he went into the spa, then get back into it and return here. And that begs the question, whose car did he borrow? Daisy Jennings’s, perhaps?”

  Luther looked at Oliver. “Does she ever give up?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed,” Oliver said.

  “That could be a problem,” Luther said. “For her future well-being.”

  “You’re welcome to try to explain that to her,” Oliver said. “I tried. Didn’t get very far.”

  Irene snapped her notebook closed. “If the two of you continue to talk about me as if I weren’t here, I’ll leave and find my own way back.”

  “My apologies,” Luther said.

  Blake loomed in the doorway. “Dinner is served.”

  Luther smiled. “Your timing is excellent, Blake.”

  “We need a good distraction,” Oliver said. “Dinner will work.”

  He took Irene’s arm. On the way into the formal dining room, she took one last look at Pell’s seascapes.

  “These are your paintings, Luther?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “They are . . . interesting.”

  Luther chuckled. “In other words, you wouldn’t want them hanging in your home.”

  “I can’t say for sure,” Irene said. “I don’t have a home. Just an apartment in L.A.”

  Chapter 16

  Oliver eased the car into a space at the curb in front of the Cove Inn. The guest rooms in the small establishment were all darkened, but a porch light glowed weakly over the front door.

  “Looks like Mrs. Fordyce decided not to wait up for you,” he said.

  “She gave me a key to the front door,” Irene said. “Told me to let myself in.”

  Oliver thought about the lonely bed waiting for him, and then he thought about how he had grown accustomed to sleeping alone. Most nights it didn’t bother him. But tonight would be different. Tonight when he went to bed, he was going to be thinking about Irene. He had a hunch he would lie awake for a long time.

  He took his time climbing out from behind the wheel. The fog had rolled in across the waters of the cove, but he could see the lights of the marina and the old fishing pier.

  He wondered what Irene would say if he suggested a stroll on the pier before she went back to her room at the inn.

  What the hell. The worst that could happen was she would say no.

  He rounded the front of the car and opened the passenger side door. This time when he reached down to help her, Irene didn’t resist. Her fingers were warm and delicate, but there was strength in the light, firm way she grasped his hand.

  This time she didn’t act as if her weight might pull him off balance. She trusted him not to fall on his face. Progress.

  “Would you like to take a walk?” he asked, trying to make it casual, trying not to let her know that everything in him was willing her to say yes.

  There was a short silence during which he was sure he actually stopped breathing.

  “It’s late,” she said finally. She adjusted the light shawl. “And a bit damp.”

  But she had stopped on the sidewalk, making no attempt to move toward the front porch steps.

  The wrap wasn’t much protection against the cool night air off the ocean. Without a word he unfastened his dinner jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It was hugely oversized for her slender frame. It enveloped her like a cape. But she made no attempt to remove it. He savored the sight of her in the coat.

  He offered her his arm. She took it. He started breathing normally again. But his blood was heating.

  They walked slowly along the sidewalk, the streetlamps lighting their way for a time. He was grimly aware of the hitch in his stride. He wanted to snap the cane like a twig. But Irene paid no attention to it—probably because her thoughts were focused on someone else, namely Nick Tremayne.

  “Well?” he said after a time. “What did you make of Pell?”

  “I think I can understand why you consider him a trusted friend, even though he’s a few years older than you.”

  That was not the answer he was expecting.

 
“What makes you think we’re good friends?” he asked.

  Irene smiled. “You have two of his paintings on your office wall.”

  “You noticed them, did you? Perhaps I like his work.”

  “It’s more than that. I think you understand his work. I expect that you two have a few things in common.”

  “Because we both offer glossy illusions to the public?”

  “No, because you both have a surface image that conceals something deeper and more complicated,” Irene said.

  “I’ve never considered myself complicated. But Luther Pell is definitely more complicated than most people realize.”

  “Why is that?”

  “As you said, he is a few years older than me. He went off to fight in the Great War when he was nineteen. He was fortunate. He returned with no visible wounds. But not all wounds are visible.”

  “No,” she said.

  They reached the entrance to the pier. Twin rows of lights illuminated the wooden-planked walkway. The far end was lost in moon-infused fog.

  Irene did not object when he guided her onto the pier. The silence was interrupted by the gentle lapping of the waves beneath the wooden boards.

  Irene was so close that now and again he caught a trace of her scent, a mix of some flowery cologne and her own feminine essence. He was sure his pulse was beating a little harder than usual. Instinctively he tightened his grip on her arm. He wanted to keep her there, next to him, for as long as possible.

  “Sorry Pell couldn’t give you what you wanted tonight,” he said at last.

  She sighed. “I didn’t think it would be easy to prove that Tremayne is a killer.”

  “No. It won’t be easy. More likely impossible.”

  “You think I’m wasting my time, don’t you?”

  “What I think,” he said slowly, “is that you are taking some very big risks.”

  She slanted him a sidelong look. “Risks you’re willing to take, as well. What will you do if we find out for certain that Nick Tremayne murdered three women but we can’t prove it?”

  “I’ll worry about that problem if it becomes a problem.”

  She stopped short. “What does that mean?”