The Girl Who Knew Too Much

by Amanda Quick

  Irene was waiting at the front desk of the Burning Cove Hotel when the newsboy arrived. She threw some money at the kid, pounced on a copy, and savored the headline.

  CRAZED FEMALE KILLER

  ARRESTED AT BURNING COVE HOTEL.

  ACTOR NICK TREMAYNE A HERO, SAY THOSE AT THE SCENE.

  The byline read Irene Glasson.

  One of the front desk clerks leaned toward her. “The hotel operator says there’s a telephone call for you, Miss Glasson. You can take it on the house phone.”

  “Thanks.” Irene hurried to the ornate telephone that sat on a nearby console. She picked up the receiver. “This is Irene Glasson.”

  “First edition is sold out,” Edwin Paisley announced. His voice vibrated with excitement. “We’re going back to press. I want a follow-up piece for the morning edition. Get me some more quotes from Tremayne. I want stuff that won’t be in the L.A. papers. I want exclusive material.”

  “Does this mean I’ve got a job?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you got the job. You’re my new reporter on the crime beat. Now go write me another hot story.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Boss.”

  Edwin hung up. Irene admired her headline again, and then she hurried down the hall to Oliver’s office. Elena was in the process of putting the cover on the typewriter.

  “Hi, Irene. I was just about to leave for the day. Congratulations on the front-page story.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  Elena chuckled. “Are you kidding? Mr. Ward gave orders for a copy to be delivered by special courier as soon as it came off the press. To tell you the truth, I think he was a little nervous. He has this thing about reporters and photographers, you see.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Irene said.

  “Well, that’s it for me,” Elena said. “I must say it’s been a busy day.” She headed toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Bye, Elena.”

  Irene waited until the outer door closed behind Elena, and then she crossed the room to the door of Oliver’s office and opened it.

  “Good news,” she said. “I’ve got a job.”

  Oliver was lounging back in his chair, his good leg propped on the corner of his desk. He had a copy of the special edition of the Herald in his hands.

  “Figured you would after this story of a crazed female killer prowling the grounds of the Burning Cove Hotel.” He took his foot off the desk and rose. “You made my security look bad but you did a great job of transforming Nick Tremayne into a real hero.”

  “It’s the crazed female killer and the movie-star hero that people will love. That’s all they’ll remember. They won’t care about your security.” She went behind the desk and wound her arms around Oliver’s neck. “Thanks for the quotes, by the way. I may need another one.”

  “Figures. Tell me about the job.”

  “Meet the new crime reporter for the Herald.”

  “According to the local authorities, we don’t have much crime in Burning Cove.”

  “With luck, that will change now that there is an actual reporter on the beat.”

  “For some reason I do not find that a comforting thought,” Oliver said.

  “Nonsense. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. I’m a professional.”

  “Don’t remind me.” The amusement vanished from Oliver’s eyes. “So, this means you’ll be staying in town?”

  And just like that, the frothy, sparkling sense of delight and excitement that had made her almost giddy went flat. She went very still.

  “Yes,” she said. “I like it here. It’s not as though there is any place else that feels like home.”

  “Does Burning Cove feel like home?”

  “I think,” she said, choosing her words with care, “that under the right circumstances, Burning Cove could definitely feel like home.”

  “Let me be more specific. Do you think that Casa del Mar could feel like home?”

  The weight of caution descended on her. Her future was hanging in the balance. She had to be certain that she understood exactly what Oliver was offering.

  “Are you inviting me to move in as a permanent houseguest?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not what I want.”

  His eyes turned bleak. “I see.”

  “Was it what you wanted?” she asked.

  “No.” His voice hardened with pain. “What I want is for you to move in as my wife. But I figured it was too soon to ask you to marry me.”

  “It’s not,” she said.

  He looked startled. “It’s not too soon to ask you to marry me?”

  “Not if you love me.”

  “Why in hell would I ask you to marry me if I didn’t love you?”

  “I have no idea. But I need to be sure. Because I love you.”

  “Irene—”

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “Actually, it’s Anna. Anna Harris.”

  “Irene—Anna—call yourself whatever you want. I love you and I will keep on loving you, whether you move in with me or not.”

  Joy blossomed deep inside her. A moment ago she had been feeling giddy with success and the promise of a job that gave her an excuse to stay in Burning Cove. But now she was beyond delighted. She was thrilled. Intoxicated with happiness. Lighter than air.

  She tightened her arms around his neck. “I would like very much to marry you and move in with you on a permanent basis.”

  He tightened his hold on her. “It will be permanent. Forever.”

  “That sounds very good. Perfect, in fact.”

  “Just one question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do I call you Anna or Irene?”

  She smiled. “I found a new life here in California as Irene. I’ll stick with her.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Besides, it’s the name on my byline.”

  Oliver laughed. He sounded like the happiest man on earth. He kissed her there in the golden light of a California day, and for the first time since she was fourteen years old, she knew she could plan a future filled with love and a family of her own.

  Chapter 67

  Raina Kirk put the updated files relating to the contract for the murder of Helen Spencer into a large envelope. She wrote the address with a neat hand. She would drop it off at the post office later.

  She removed the remaining files from a locked cabinet and put them into her briefcase.

  The files weren’t the only items in the case. There was also several thousand dollars in cash.

  She closed the briefcase and locked it. She left it sitting on her desk while she crossed the room to put on her coat and the adorable little felt hat that she had bought the day before. With its upturned brim and high crown trimmed with a jaunty feather, it was currently the height of fashion. The instant she had spotted it in the department store window she knew it was exactly the hat for her.

  She glanced at the telegram on her desk. It had been delivered early the previous morning before Graham Enright had arrived at the office. Fortunately she had been there to receive it.

  REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT JULIAN ENRIGHT DIED IN A CAR CRASH IN BURNING COVE, CALIF. THE REMAINS ARE BEING HELD IN A LOCAL MORGUE. FOR DETAILS CONTACT DET. BRANDON, BURNING COVE POLICE DEPARTMENT. CONDOLENCES.

  She picked up the telegram and took one last look around the office. All was in order. The plant in the corner had been watered. The desktop was clear. The typewriter was covered. It was an office that any secretary could be proud to call her own.

  It was time to leave.

  She crossed the room and opened the door of her employer’s inner sanctum. Graham Enright was in the same position he had been in when she last peeked into the office—slumped over his desk. The delicate china cup from which he had tak
en his last swallow of coffee lay in pieces on the polished oak floor.

  Graham Enright had been dead since yesterday morning. The body was quite cold.

  She put the telegram on the desk.

  Satisfied, she left the inner office, closing the door very quietly, as she always did. A well-trained secretary never slammed doors. She pulled on her gloves, picked up the briefcase, her handbag, and the envelope, and let herself out into the hall.

  With luck it would be quite some time before Graham Enright’s body was discovered—days, perhaps. The janitors were called in only to clean when authorized to do so by Graham Enright himself, who always supervised the process.

  When someone eventually did find the corpse, the assumption would be that a grief-stricken Enright had taken his own life after learning of the death of his only son and heir.

  Anyone who thought to check the secretary’s calendar would learn that, shortly before his death, Graham, a generous employer, had sent her off for a monthlong visit to relatives in Pennsylvania.

  There were no relatives in Pennsylvania or anywhere else for that matter, but no one would think to question that tiny, insignificant fact, Raina thought.

  When you discovered that you were working for a family of contract killers, you learned that details were important. They often made the difference between life and death. She had been planning her departure from the firm for some time, merely waiting for the right moment. The news of Julian Enright’s death the day before had prompted her to hand in her notice that same day. She had done so with a cup of coffee laced with cyanide.

  Graham Enright had died without ever seeing the telegram. He did, however, have a moment to realize that his secretary had poisoned him. She had seen the fury and outraged disbelief in his eyes just before he collapsed. That was an Enright for you, she thought. Both of them, father and son, had always assumed that they were smarter and more ruthless than those around them.

  She took the elevator down to the lobby and went outside. The new car she had purchased with some of the cash from the firm’s discretionary fund was parked on a side street. She put the briefcase into the trunk alongside her suitcase and got behind the wheel.

  She stopped at the post office and hurried inside to mail the envelope containing the Helen Spencer file. It was addressed to the local office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was enough material in the envelope to point the FBI to the agent of a foreign government who had commissioned Enright & Enright to retrieve a certain notebook, no questions asked. What the FBI chose to do with the information was up to them.

  Raina walked out of the post office, got back into her sharp new car, and drove away from New York.

  She had given a great deal of thought to her destination. In the end she concluded that any town that knew how to deal with the likes of Julian Enright was her kind of town. Burning Cove sounded like the perfect place to start her new life.

  According to the map, the road to the future started in Chicago. Route 66 would take her all the way to California.

  Chapter 68

  There were two armed guards at the front gate of the compound, but it was three o’clock in the morning, so they were working hard to stay awake with coffee and low-voiced discussions of sports and women.

  The intruder had studied the layout of the Saltwood Laboratory earlier in the day from the cover of a stand of trees. He had determined that the weakest point of entry was the loading dock gate. There was a serious-looking lock but it presented no problems. He was good with locks. He had brought along a set of wire cutters to deal with the alarm system, but in the end he didn’t have to use them. He simply opened the device and unplugged it.

  He found a side door, picked another lock, disarmed another alarm, and then he was inside the darkened building. He had brought a flashlight with him. The metal shielding around the bulb ensured that the device cast only a very narrow beam.

  He made his way past several doors marked Authorized Personnel Only. Curious, he opened a couple at random and saw shadow-filled lab rooms crowded with workbenches. An assortment of instruments and mechanical equipment was arrayed on each bench. White lab coats and goggles designed to protect the eyes dangled from wall hooks.

  He continued down the hall and turned the corner into another wing lined with office doors. When he located the one marked Dr. Raymond Perry, Executive Director, he picked the lock and entered the reception area.

  He went past the secretary’s desk and paused to unlock the door of the inner office. Dr. Raymond Perry’s office was neat and uncluttered. A row of locked file cabinets lined one wall.

  He did what he had come to do and made his way back out of the building, relocking the doors and resetting the alarms. At the far end of the compound the guards were still drinking coffee and chatting.

  He made his way through the stand of trees. The new speedster was waiting in the dense shadows at the side of the road.

  He got in on the passenger side. Irene turned the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the empty road.

  “I take it everything went according to plan,” she said.

  “No problems,” Oliver said. “I left the notebook on top of the executive director’s desk. He’ll see it first thing when he goes into his office in the morning.”

  “He’ll wonder how it got there.”

  “Sure. But it’s in his own and his company’s best interests to keep quiet. Besides, there’s no way he’ll be able to figure out how the notebook reappeared.”

  Irene smiled. “Magic.”

  “Magic.”

  “You weren’t gone very long. I thought you would have to spend more time getting through the locks and alarms.”

  “Saltwood has a government contract, so they’ve got standard government security. They obviously gave the contract to the lowest bidder.”

  “Of course. So, now we’re free to go on our honeymoon.”

  “Got any particular destination in mind?”

  “I hear Burning Cove is a romantic choice for a honeymoon destination.”

  “I’ve heard that, too,” Oliver said. “It’s a long drive back to California but there’s no rush. We can stop at some of the roadside attractions along the way.”

  “That would be nice.” Irene patted the steering wheel affectionately. “The last time I drove across the country I was in a hurry. I didn’t get a chance to do any sightseeing.”

  “This time will be different.”

  “Yes, it will,” Irene said. “This time we’re going home.”

  Amanda Quick is a pseudonym for Jayne Ann Krentz, the author, under various pen names, of more than fifty New York Times bestsellers; there are more than 35 million copies of her books in print. She lives in Seattle.

  Visit her online at jayneannkrentz.com, facebook.com/jayneannkrentz and twitter.com/jayneannkrentz.

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