by Amanda Quick
“If you had, you, too, would probably be dead,” Luther said.
Irene took a deep breath. “Yes, that thought has occurred to me every minute of every waking hour since I found Helen’s body.”
Oliver reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “You were alone that night. You’re not alone now.”
The phone rang a short time later just as Luther was preparing to leave the villa.
“Hold on,” Oliver said. “That may be Brandon with some news about Springer.”
He grabbed his cane and disappeared into the villa. Irene was left alone on the patio with Luther.
“I know you’re involved in this mess because you’re Oliver’s friend,” she said earnestly, “not because of me. But I want you to know how much I appreciate your help. I would apologize for bringing so much trouble to Burning Cove but that won’t do any good. I can only tell you that I had no idea things would turn out to be so dangerous.”
Luther drank the last of his coffee and set the cup in the saucer. “It’s true you have livened things up here in our little town. But there’s no need for apologies. If anything, I owe you my thanks.”
Bewildered, she could only stare at him. “What on earth for?”
He gave her an unreadable smile. “Oliver and I have a tendency to sink into boredom occasionally.”
“I find that difficult to believe. Each of you is responsible for a large business enterprise. I’m sure your various financial interests keep you occupied.”
“It’s true, our businesses do occupy much of our time. But a man can only review so many budgets before it all becomes predictable and routine.”
“Murder is hardly an ideal cure for boredom.”
Luther chuckled. “When you live in a small town like Burning Cove, you can’t be too choosey when it comes to diversions.”
“You’re teasing me.”
“You’ve got me there. But it looks to me like you’re doing my friend Oliver a world of good, so I’m willing to cut you some slack when it comes to murder.”
“How can you say that? I nearly got him killed at that warehouse the other night.”
“Yes, well, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you didn’t actually succeed. I am acquainted with a lot of people but Oliver is one of the few that I can call friend, one of the very few I trust.”
“Look, Mr. Pell—”
“Luther.”
“Luther, this is not a laughing matter.”
“Probably not,” he agreed. “But, you see, the news of exactly what happened at that warehouse is all over town.”
“Then you know Oliver could have died in the fire or been shot by one of those two men on motorcycles.”
“What I know,” Luther said, “is that you were on your way out of that burning warehouse when Oliver lost his balance and fell. You turned back to help him.”
“Well, of course I did. It was my fault he was in harm’s way in the first place. Besides, one doesn’t leave one’s partner behind.”
“No,” Luther said. “One doesn’t. But not everyone understands that. You went back to help my friend. That’s all that matters to me.”
She studied him for a long moment. “You really have been concerned about him, haven’t you?”
“Sometimes,” Luther said, “he takes that souped-up Cord of his out onto an empty stretch of highway and he drives it very, very fast. I think he uses it as an antidote for the pain.”
“The pain of his old injury?”
“That is the least of it,” Luther said. “He lost something far more valuable than a lucrative career when he nearly died onstage. But that is for him to tell you.”
“I think you understand him very well,” Irene said. “I assume that is because you have also experienced real pain. You said that Oliver’s antidote is to drive his car too fast. Tell me, what remedy do you use?”
The edge of Luther’s mouth twitched a little in amusement. “You are very perceptive. I shall have to remember that in future.”
“You paint,” Irene said, very sure of her conclusion. “That is how you deal with the pain, isn’t it?”
Luther narrowed his eyes. He no longer looked amused. “As I said, you are very perceptive.”
Oliver emerged from the living room before Irene could say anything else.
“That was Brandon, all right,” Oliver said. “Springer was discharged from the hospital this morning. He was booked into the Burning Cove jail approximately twenty minutes later. Not long afterward a hotshot lawyer from L.A. arrived and bailed Springer out of jail.”
“Who sent the lawyer?” Luther asked. “I doubt if a guy like Springer has that kind of money.”
“Brandon assumes that Hollywood Mack or the studio fixer, Ernie Ogden, is responsible for the lawyer,” Oliver said.
“So a known arsonist is running around free in Burning Cove?” Irene asked. “That’s outrageous.”
Oliver looked at her. “Brandon said the only good news is that Springer was last seen buying a train ticket to L.A.”
Chapter 43
Graham Enright clamped his hand around the telephone. “What the hell do you mean, you were playing tennis when I called earlier? I didn’t send you out to California to take a vacation. You’re supposed to be working.”
“Calm down,” Julian said, his voice rendered distant and a bit scratchy by the long-distance connection. “I am working. I’ve got a plan, and Nick Tremayne is a critical element. Everything is under control.”
“How much longer do you intend to spend finishing this assignment?”
“Things have gotten a little complicated.”
Graham drummed his fingers on his desk. “How complicated?”
“I searched the apartment in L.A. very thoroughly. There was no sign of the notebook. Interestingly, someone got to her place before me—the studio people, I think. But I doubt that they found the notebook. Even if they had, the goons wouldn’t have recognized its real value. I’m sure she brought it here to Burning Cove. I’m told she was staying at a local inn but now she’s a guest at Ward’s private villa.”
“Who is Ward?”
“Ex-magician. Not a very good one, apparently. Almost got himself killed in his last performance.”
“Are you talking about Oliver Ward?”
“Right. Ever see his act?”
“No, but I remember the headlines when he nearly got killed onstage. What does he have to do with this situation?”
“He owns the Burning Cove Hotel. Anna Harris—she’s calling herself Irene Glasson now—moved in with him very soon after she arrived in Burning Cove. My guess is that she’s hoping he’ll be able to help her find a buyer for the notebook. Ward is friends with the owner of a local nightclub, Luther Pell. Pell’s got mob connections.”
“You think Ward and Harris or Glasson or whatever she’s calling herself are working together now?”
“Glasson may believe that they’re partners, but it’s far more likely that he’s running a con on her. That’s the only thing that makes sense. There’s no other reason why he’d be sleeping with a gossip columnist from a cheap Hollywood newspaper. Got to hang up now. I have to talk to the hotel concierge about booking a restaurant this evening.”
“Damn it, what about the project? I thought I made it clear, the reputation of Enright and Enright is on the line. Our business is founded on the twin pillars of absolute discretion and successful results. We are poised to take a huge step into the global marketplace. A failure of this magnitude will do serious damage to the firm.”
“I’ll have this business wrapped up in just a few more days. Got to go. I’ll call as soon as I have the notebook.”
The line went dead.
Irritated, Graham dropped the receiver into the cradle and got to his feet. He went to stand at the window of his office and contemplated the b
usy Manhattan streets far below.
His son was talented and ambitious. In addition, Julian possessed the feral instincts and the intelligence required to take the helm of Enright & Enright. But there was no getting around the fact that the boy had been indulged from the cradle. The result was a spoiled, impulsive young man.
It did not matter that he was spoiled. The Enrights had always moved in wealthy, socially elite circles. Julian was a product of his upbringing. It was only natural that he was accustomed to privilege and the finer things in life.
It was the impulsiveness that was worrisome. The trait had been evident since Julian was a toddler but it was becoming increasingly pronounced. Perhaps it was a direct result of his string of successes, Graham thought. When a man got accustomed to committing murder and getting away with it time and again, it was only to be expected that he might start to think himself invincible.
Julian needed to learn control. He needed to mature. But there would be ample opportunity in the future to guide him and shape him so that he could fulfill his destiny.
First things first. It was imperative that the notebook be recovered and the woman who was calling herself Irene Glasson be terminated.
A buzzing sound interrupted his thoughts. He went back to his desk and pressed a button.
“Yes, Miss Kirk?”
“Mr. Duffield is here to see you, sir. He wishes to discuss his will.”
“Thank you, Miss Kirk. Please send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door opened and Raina Kirk ushered Duffield into the room. He was a frail man in his early eighties who was quickly going senile—just the sort of client that Graham cultivated to maintain a façade of legitimacy and respectability for the firm. It was Duffield and his ilk who unwittingly provided access to certain social circles and—most important of all—the inside information that so often proved useful to the real work of Enright & Enright.
Raina took Duffield’s arm and escorted him to one of the client chairs.
“Thank you, young lady,” Duffield cackled.
Raina smiled, politely ignoring the lecherous grin on the old man’s face. “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Duffield.” She stepped back and looked at Graham.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“That’s all for now, Miss Kirk,” Graham said.
“Yes, sir.”
Raina left. The door closed behind her.
Graham suppressed a small sigh. Raina Kirk was another problem that would have to be dealt with fairly soon. She had sent one too many coded telegrams, overheard one too many snippets of conversation, booked one too many hotel rooms for Julian, recorded one too many unusual financial transactions.
Lately Graham had begun to suspect that she had listened in on some of his telephone calls.
No question but that the time had come to fire Raina Kirk. She would not be the first private secretary he had been forced to let go, Graham thought. That meant he would soon be seeking a new woman for the position.
Replacing a competent secretary with an equally skilled one who had no close family was always a challenge. He had followed the policy his father set down when the business was founded. He made certain that his private secretaries were single women of a certain age who possessed no close relatives. Relatives could be a problem when it came time to terminate a secretary. And, sooner or later, each had to be fired.
The position required a woman well versed in the secretarial arts. Her typing, dictation, bookkeeping, and organizational skills had to be excellent. But such women were also quite intelligent and insightful. Eventually they learned too much about the firm’s lucrative sideline.
When Julian returned from California, he would deal with Miss Kirk, just as he had dealt with her predecessor. Replacing Kirk wouldn’t be easy, Graham thought. She was the most talented secretary he had ever hired. But an executive had to do what was best for the firm.
There was one benefit to firing secretaries. The exercise was an excellent way for Julian to keep his knife skills sharp.
Chapter 44
“Mr. O’Conner is here to see you, sir,” Elena said over the intercom.
Oliver pressed a button. “Good. Send him in, please, Elena.”
The door opened and Tom O’Conner walked into the office. He was in his forties, a big, muscular, ruddy-faced man who had handled security for the Amazing Oliver Ward Show. He wore the dark jacket, trousers, and tie that were the day uniform for the men on his staff.
Tom’s clothes, like all the other staff uniforms, were supplied by the hotel. They were cleaned and pressed regularly by the housekeeping department, so Tom always started the day looking crisp and tailored. But somehow, within an hour after arriving for work, he managed to look rumpled.
Oliver lounged back and wrapped his fingers around the arms of his chair. “Have a seat, Tom. What have you got on the crazy fan?”
“Not much. His name is Henry Oakes and he’s nuts about Nick Tremayne.” Tom settled his bulk into a chair. “Oakes checked into the Seaside Motel a day after Tremayne showed up here. Has coffee and two fried eggs at Mel’s Café every morning. Comes back for coffee and a meat loaf sandwich at dinner.”
“Meat loaf?”
“It’s always meat loaf at dinner, according to the waitress. Always two fried eggs in the morning. Oakes appears to be a creature of habit. The waitress said he was very precise about how he wanted his eggs and the sandwich. She also says he’s creepy.”
“Irene mentioned that. What does he do at night?”
“Well, that’s where things get a little interesting. Parker, the guy who handles security at the Carousel Club, told me that he spotted Oakes outside the club the same night that Tremayne spent a couple of hours there.”
“That was the night that Gloria Maitland drowned in the spa.”
“Yeah. Parker said he noticed Oakes standing in the shadows, watching the front door of the club. Parker thought he might be a chauffeur or a bodyguard. But when Parker asked him who he was waiting for, Oakes just walked away. Hasn’t shown up again, at least as far as Parker knows.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing solid. We’ve seen the type before, Boss. Every month or so we catch some screwy fan trying to sneak onto the property.”
“Tell everyone on the staff—I mean everyone : housekeepers, kitchen crew, gardeners, as well as your people—to watch for Henry Oakes. If he shows up, I want to know immediately.”
“Want me to have a little talk with Oakes?” Tom raised his brows. “I could strongly advise him to leave town. I can make sure he’s on the late-afternoon train to L.A.”
“If we send him back to L.A., we’ll lose track of him. I think we’re better off knowing where he is. Like I said, if he shows up on the property, I want to know about it.”
“I’ll get the word out.”
Chapter 45
Willie liked polishing martini glasses and suspending them by their stems in the overhead rack. She found the chore soothing, a form of meditation. She was engaged in the practice when Irene walked into the lounge looking like a woman who needed a confidante.
Willie recognized the expression. When you worked behind a bar, you saw it a lot.
It was going on ten o’clock in the morning and there were no guests in the bar yet. That was not unusual. Some of the early risers were playing either golf or tennis. Several were working off the effects of the previous night’s partying with a massage and a stint in the spa’s steam room. A few were sleeping late—not necessarily with their own spouses. She had already sent several orders of her signature eye-opener, Red Sally—a cocktail involving tomato juice, vodka, and a lot of salt and hot sauce—to people who had ordered room service.
Irene hitched up her trousers, plunked herself down on a bar stool, and folded her arms on the polished wooden surface.
So
this is the boss’s new lady friend, Willie thought.
She was as curious about Irene as everyone else on the staff.
“You must be Miss Glasson,” she said. “Welcome to the Burning Cove Hotel. I’m Willie, by the way.”
Irene had walked in with the look of a woman who was lost in her own thoughts, but at the greeting she immediately refocused her attention and smiled.
The smile was real, Willie decided. She saw all kinds. She was pretty good at separating the false ones from the genuine article. All that experience as a magician’s assistant had served her well in her new career.
“You worked with Oliver in his show, didn’t you?” Irene said.
“Oliver told you about me?”
“A little, not much. He mentioned that several of the people employed here at the Burning Cove, including you, had worked with him in the Amazing Oliver Ward Show.”
“That’s right,” Willie said. “After the show closed, Mr. Ward could have let all of us go. Instead, he used every last dime he had to buy this hotel. He couldn’t afford to pay us back at the start, but we had room and board so we stuck around. The place started turning a profit last year. The pay is good, so we’re all still here. What can I get you?”
“Do you serve coffee in here?”
“I do.”
“In that case, I’ll have some, thank you.”
Willie set a cup and saucer on the bar, picked up a pot, and poured the coffee.
“I see the boss let you out on your own this morning,” she said. “Does that mean he thinks your problem has been resolved?”
Irene drummed her fingers on the counter. “I suppose everyone on the staff knows that Oliver thinks I need round-the-clock security.”
“Sure. We also know that you helped get him out of that burning warehouse the other night.”
Irene sipped some coffee. “As I keep pointing out to people, it was my fault that he was in that warehouse in the first place.”
