by Amanda Quick
Luckily Enright wasn’t an aspiring actor, Nick thought. He would have been serious competition in the leading man category.
“Tell me everything from start to finish,” Julian Enright said. “Don’t leave out any details. I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.”
“Didn’t Ogden fill you in?”
“I prefer to do my own background research.”
“Research?”
“Fact gathering. Call it whatever you want. Talk to me, Tremayne.”
“I told you, it’s like she’s gunning for me.”
“You’re sure that you and Miss Glasson have never crossed paths? No one-night stands? A brief affair?”
“I’m positive. She’s not my type.” Too restless to sit still, Nick got to his feet, clawed his fingers through his hair, and began to pace the patio. “She’s got it in for me, I tell you.”
“Any idea why she might harbor a grudge against you?” Julian asked in mild tones.
“Maybe.” Nick paused and then shrugged. “Something happened to one of the other reporters at that gossip rag she works for.”
“What, exactly, happened to the other reporter?”
“Slipped in the bathtub. Hit her head and drowned. It was an accident. The authorities said so.”
“But Miss Glasson believes otherwise?”
“I guess so,” Nick muttered. “Then there was another drowning.”
“I assume you mean the one that occurred here at the hotel.”
“Apparently Maitland planned to meet Glasson in the spa that night. Pretty sure she was going to feed Glasson some gossip about me. But Glasson told the cops that she found Maitland dead in the pool. Next thing I know there’s a hit piece on the front page of Whispers linking my name with Maitland’s. Reporters from papers clear across the country started calling the studio asking for interviews with me.”
“Under other circumstances that would be a good thing.”
Cold fingers touched the back of Nick’s neck. Enright sounded as if he didn’t understand the implications.
“This isn’t a joking matter, Enright. Glasson is trying to tie me to the accidental deaths of two women. If this story gets out of control, my career will be ruined.”
“Anything else I should know?” Julian asked.
He sounded almost bored now. Nick fought back the red tide of anger. He could not afford to lose his temper. He needed Julian Enright.
“There was another drowning last night,” he said. “A local gold digger named Daisy Jennings.”
“Did you know Jennings?”
“I fucked her once in the garden of the Paradise Club. That was the same night that Gloria Maitland drowned. Jennings was my alibi.”
“And now she’s dead?”
Nick hesitated. “It gets worse. Glasson and the magician found the body. Looks like Jennings intended to meet with that damned reporter.”
“Did Jennings have something on you?”
“No.” Nick struggled to contain his rage. “Look, your job is to keep Glasson from making more trouble, not dig into my sex life. Why don’t you go to work?”
“Thorough research is the key to success in my profession.”
“Yeah? What, exactly, is your profession?”
Julian smiled. “I’m the person people like Ogden call in when they discover that they can’t deal with a problem themselves. Now, then, are you sure you don’t have any idea what made Irene Glasson conclude that you were the cause of her colleague’s drowning accident?”
“I’m sure.”
There was no way that Irene Glasson could know about Betty Scott, Nick thought. It was impossible. Betty Scott was his past—his buried past.
“There must have been some reason why she thinks you were responsible,” Julian continued in that same languid tone.
“All I can tell you is that the other reporter—the one who died—was asking around about me. Looking for anything she could find.”
“But you have no idea what she might have been searching for?”
Nick grunted. “No. None.”
He needed Enright but damned if he was going to spill his secrets to him.
“Interesting,” Julian mused.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Irene Glasson seems to have come across a lot of bodies,” Julian said.
Nick stared at him. “What are you thinking?”
“You may be right. Glasson may be setting you up.”
“You think she killed Gloria and the others?”
“I have no idea, but it occurs to me that she may be trying to manufacture a story that would make her career. If she can pin a murder rap on you, she would become the top Hollywood gossip columnist in the country, at least for a while.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Nick said. Excitement snapped through him. “That’s it exactly. She’s out to destroy me so that she can grab a headline or two.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Julian got to his feet. “I’m here to make your problem disappear, remember?”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “I remember.”
“I’ll let myself out,” Julian said. He paused briefly. “One more thing. Absolutely no one is to know my real reason for being here. Understand?”
“What about my personal assistant?”
Julian shook his head. “No one. As far as everyone around you knows, you and I are just a couple of guys on vacation who struck up a friendship. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Julian disappeared into the shadows of the living room. Nick watched, more than a little awed. The man moved as silently as a snake.
I’m here to make your problem disappear.
A moment later the front door of the villa opened and then closed very quietly.
For the first time since the nightmare began, Nick allowed himself a measure of optimism. Maybe, just maybe, he would survive the rolling disaster that had overtaken him.
The doorbell chimed. He pulled himself out of his trance.
“Come in,” he called.
The door opened. Tentative footsteps echoed on the tiles.
He stifled a sigh. “I’m out here on the patio.”
Claudia appeared in the doorway, clutching her notebook.
“Who was that man I saw leaving here?” she asked.
“Just someone I met in the bar. We’re going to play golf together tomorrow.”
“I see,” Claudia said. “I came to tell you that Mr. Ogden called again. He told me to tell you that everything is under control.”
Nick’s spirits soared. “I think Ogden might be right this time.”
“This time?”
“Go on, get out of here. I want to work on my lines for Lost Weekend.”
Claudia fled.
Chapter 36
“Interesting.” Chester adjusted his spectacles on his nose and studied one of the pages in Atherton’s notebook with acute interest. “These look like mathematical formulas, the kind used to calculate distances and angles.” He turned a few more pages. “Huh.”
“What is it?” Oliver asked.
Chester looked up. “I can’t answer all your questions yet. I need time to study these notes. It would be helpful to know what Atherton was working on at the Saltwood lab. I can make a telephone call to the company.”
“No,” Irene said, her voice sharpening. “I called the lab back at the start. That’s how I found out that Dr. Atherton was dead. The person who took the call immediately started to grill me. She tried to find out who I was and why I was calling. It was frightening. My former boss is dead because of that notebook.”
“Yet she entrusted it to your care,” Oliver said. “She didn’t tell you to destroy it.”
“No. But she made it clear that I couldn’t trust anyone—not even the FBI or
the cops. She said she made the mistake of trusting the wrong man.”
Chester looked at her. “But she suggested that you might be able to use the notebook as a bargaining chip if the worst happened?”
“Yes.”
Oliver studied her. “Did Spencer spell out what the worst possibility might be?”
“I think it’s obvious,” Irene said. “She meant that if whoever is after the notebook found me, I might be able to make a deal.”
“Considering what happened to Helen Spencer, I doubt that any deal for the notebook would end well for you,” Oliver said.
Irene winced. “I came to the same conclusion. But the notebook is all I’ve got so I keep it close. Maybe the second break-in at my apartment has nothing to do with Atherton’s notes. Maybe Tremayne’s studio really did send someone to break in a second time.”
Chester and Oliver looked at her. Neither of them said a word.
She exhaled slowly. “I know. What are the odds?”
“Not good,” Oliver said. “Unless and until proven otherwise, we have to go with the theory that the second break-in was linked to Atherton’s notebook.”
Irene locked her arms around herself. “Which means that whoever is after it managed to track me all the way to California.”
Oliver’s brows rose. “It took him four months to find you. I’d say you did a damned good job of disappearing.”
“Not good enough, apparently.”
Oliver got a very intent, very thoughtful expression. “Someone lost you and the notebook for four long months. Whoever it is will be very, very relieved to know that he has finally found you. I think he will also be in a great hurry to recover the notebook before you vanish again. Or before someone else finds you.”
Alarmed, Irene stared at him. “Someone else?”
“If that notebook was worth killing for, I think it’s safe to assume that there may be others after it,” Oliver said.
Irene groaned. “That’s not a comforting thought.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you can bet that whoever killed Spencer is probably concerned about the competition, too,” Oliver said.
She eyed him warily. “Why should that make me feel better?”
“It means that whoever found you in L.A. will be strongly motivated to take some risks. And that leads to the very strong possibility that he’ll make mistakes—especially if he’s pushed to act quickly.”
Chester snapped the notebook shut. “We need to know why these notes are so important. I’ve licensed a few of my patents to various firms around the country. I know some people. Someone out there will have some idea of what is going on at Saltwood.”
“You must be very careful,” Irene said.
“Take it easy,” Oliver said. “Chester knows what he’s doing. Meanwhile, I think we should put that notebook in a more secure place. No offense, but your handbag is not exactly Fort Knox.”
Instinctively Irene tightened her grip on the strap of her handbag. “I’ve been afraid to let it out of my sight.”
“Don’t worry,” Chester said. “After I’ve finished examining it, I’ll put it in a very safe place.”
“All right. I guess.”
“You two go on now,” Chester said. “I need peace and quiet to work on this project.”
Oliver grasped Irene’s shoulder and gently turned her toward the door. Reluctantly she allowed him to steer her out of the workshop.
“It feels weird,” she said.
“Giving Atherton’s notebook to someone else? I understand. But we need to know what makes that notebook worth the risk of a murder rap.”
“If we’re right about the killer—if he found my apartment in L.A.—then by now he knows that I’m here in Burning Cove.”
“Yes, but he’s in my territory now. We’ve got a good chance of picking him out of the crowd.”
“How?”
He got her outside into the gardens. The sun felt very good, she thought, and the ocean looked especially dazzling.
“This is a small town,” Oliver said. “It will be no trouble at all for Detective Brandon to get us a list of people who have recently checked in to the local inns and hotels.”
“Including this one?” she said. “I thought you kept your guest list secret.”
Oliver looked amused. “We don’t give it out to the press but I make it a policy to always know who is staying in my hotel.”
“Do you really think the killer would be so bold as to check in to your hotel?”
“I think,” Oliver said, “that it would be a very smart thing for him to do.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the last thing you would expect.”
“Misdirection.”
“Either that or a breathtaking degree of arrogance.” Oliver sounded very thoughtful now.
“What makes you so sure you can tell what he’s thinking?” Irene demanded. “You’ve never met the monster who murdered Helen Spencer.”
“But I already know a great deal about him, starting with the fact that he is a human monster. There was, after all, no need to murder Spencer in the grisly manner you described.”
She shuddered. “No.”
“It sounds like he enjoyed himself. That definitely makes him a monster. In addition, I’m very sure it also makes him arrogant. The receptionist at Whispers mentioned his accent.”
“What about it?”
“That fits with the fact that he seems to have been acquainted with Helen Spencer. Odds are the man we’re looking for is from the East Coast.”
“Yes. Helen’s acquaintances all moved in very exclusive social circles back east. It’s possible she met someone from outside that world, though. I just can’t say. It’s obvious I didn’t know nearly as much about her as I thought I did.”
“We get our share of guests from the East Coast. They tend to stand out.”
“How? Clothes? Manners?”
“And the accent. Gives them away every time. It would appear that we are dealing with two killers. I think we need some assistance.”
“The police?”
“No, someone who can afford to be somewhat more flexible than the local cops. Luther Pell. Let’s go to my office. I’ll telephone him and ask him to meet with us as soon as possible.”
“You’re sure you can trust him?”
“Yes,” Oliver said.
A short time later he put down the telephone and looked at Irene.
“Luther will be here in an hour,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “All right.”
Oliver got the look of a man who had just made a life-altering decision. He grabbed his cane and levered himself to his feet.
“Come with me,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
Chapter 37
It was an act of pure impulse, but once the desire to show her the artifacts of his other life had struck, he knew it was what he wanted to do. He did not know why he wanted her to see the relics of the past; he only knew that he needed to show them to her and that now was the time.
He guided her away from the hotel and the surrounding villas. They walked through the gardens and stopped at a wrought iron gate.
He unlocked the gate and ushered her through.
“Behold the secrets of the illusion of the Burning Cove Hotel,” he said. “Or, at least, some of the secrets.”
Irene studied the cluster of storage sheds, workshops, and the large garage. There were a number of employees scattered about working on vehicle engines, hauling paint buckets, and wielding gardening equipment. When they noticed Oliver, they called out greetings. He responded and then indicated Irene.
“Just wanted to show Miss Glasson how you keep this place operating,” he said.
The men chuckled, nodded respectfully at Irene, and went back to w
ork.
“It’s like the backlot of a movie studio,” she said.
“And, like the studios, the hotel makes sure everyone who works here is well-fed. The food is free in the employee cafeteria.” He urged her toward one of the larger buildings. “What I want to show you is in that big storage locker.”
Intrigued, she walked alongside him and paused at the large door while he took out a key.
He got the door open, took a couple of steps into the dark, high-ceilinged structure, and found the light switch. When he flipped it, the overhead fixtures came on, revealing the array of tarp-covered objects.
The light from the fixtures was not strong enough to penetrate deeply into the gloom inside the prop storage locker. Not even brilliant stage lighting could have dispelled all the shadows, he thought, because so many of them were manifestations of the ghosts of his past.
Irene moved slowly into the space and surveyed it with intense interest. Then she turned to look at him.
“This isn’t old hotel furniture you’ve got stored in here, is it?” she asked.
“No,” he said. He walked to the nearest tarp and pulled it aside, revealing a large mirror. “After I closed the show for the last time, I was stuck with a lot of stage props and equipment. There wasn’t much of a market for the leftovers of a magic act, so I put them into storage.”
The mirror was a little taller than she was. She moved to stand in front of it and reached out to touch it lightly with her fingertips.
“Was this part of the illusion that the girl at the beach mentioned?” she asked.
“It’s one of the four mirrors I used,” he said. “Want to see how it works?”
She widened her eyes. “I thought magicians weren’t supposed to reveal their secrets.”
“I perfected this particular illusion, the Lady Vanishes in the Mirror, so I’m entitled to reveal the secret behind it. Besides, the assistants always know the magician’s secrets.”
