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?”
He was forced to stop, too. He released her, hooked the handle of the cane over the railing, and leaned against the wooden barrier.
“It means that this is Burning Cove, not L.A.,” he said. “The rules are a little different here.”
“Mr. Ward—”
“Oliver.”
“Oliver. I appreciate that you have an interest in finding out what happened in your spa and I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t want to be responsible for you doing something that could get you arrested.”
He smiled a little at that. “Trust me, if I get arrested, it will be my own fault.”
She folded her arms under the protective cloak of his coat and looked at him. In the weak glow of the nearby lamp, he could see the shadows in her eyes.
“I assume your next step is to try to interview Daisy Jennings?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Luther was right, you know. She won’t talk. By now the studio people will have gotten to her.”
Irene angled her head a little and studied his face in the dim light. He realized that she was trying to read him.
“It’s worth a try,” she said. “I don’t have any other leads.”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“No,” she said. “I can’t. By any chance, do you know Miss Jennings?”
“I know her,” he said. “She’s all right but she’s wasting her life chasing a dream.”
“She wants to be an actress?”
“Daisy Jennings spends her nights at the Paradise Club and sometimes in the lounge at my hotel because she hopes that if she sleeps with the right person, she’ll finally get that screen test, the one that will transform her into a movie star.”
“That’s so sad.”
“She’s hardly alone. Hollywood is filled with dreamers like her. Some of them find their way to Burning Cove because the stars and directors come here.”
“I know,” Irene said. “In the time I’ve been working at Whispers, I’ve met a lot of people with stars in their eyes. Everyone has dreams.”
“What’s your dream?” he asked.
“Dreams change. I lost my parents when I was little. My grandfather raised me. I used to dream about traveling around the world. But Grandpa died when I was fourteen. I wound up in an orphanage for a couple of years. For a while my dream was to have a family of my own. But it soon became obvious that what I really needed was a way to make a living. My dreams are a lot more pragmatic these days. What about you?”
“Like you said, dreams change. There was a time when I wanted to become the next Houdini. Now my goal is to make sure the Burning Cove Hotel keeps turning a profit.”
“Sounds like we’ve both been able to adapt our dreams to our circumstances.”
“Probably less frustrating that way,” he said.
“Probably.”
“What happens if your investigation goes nowhere?” he asked.
“I’ll go back to my job and find another story to cover. Speaking of my big story, I’m grateful to you for opening some doors for me. It was nice of you to introduce me to Luther Pell tonight.”
“You can skip the gratitude,” he said. “I don’t want it.”
He had evidently spoken more sharply than he had intended because she stiffened and then threw him a quick, searching glance.
“I was trying to be polite and civil,” she said coldly. “Are you always this prickly?”
He groaned. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. Just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t expecting anything more out of this partnership.”
“Anything more?” she repeated much too carefully.
The wooden boards on which he was standing might as well have been transformed into eggshells. He was afraid to make another move but he felt compelled to try to explain.
“Gratitude can be misunderstood,” he said.
“Really? I have no problem understanding exactly what it means.”
“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t expect you to fall into bed with me as a way of thanking me for opening those damned doors.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of sleeping with you as a way of repaying you for your help. Are we clear on that?”
“Perfectly clear.”
“Good. In that case, I’m going back to my room. Alone.”
She stepped smartly to the side, whipped around him, and marched swiftly back along the pier.
“Damn it, Irene, you’re twisting my words.”
He grabbed his cane off the railing and started after her. Pain ripped through his bad leg. For a couple of seconds, he could scarcely breathe through the agony. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the cane, and kept going.
Irene did not look back but her dainty heels slowed her down. He had closed most of the distance between them by the time she reached the front steps of the Cove Inn.
He saw the two men hunkered down in the shadows on the porch before Irene did because she was busy rummaging around in her big handbag for the key.
“Irene, stop,” he said, using his stage voice, the one that carried all the way to the back row of the theater.
Startled, she froze.
“What?” she asked.
The two men surged out of the shadows. One of them held a boxlike object in his hands.
Oliver braced himself on his cane and grabbed Irene. He pulled her close, trying to shield her from what he knew was coming.
The flashbulb exploded. Oliver turned his head to avoid being blinded by the dazzling light.
“Comment for the press, Mr. Ward?” one of the men said. “How long have you and Miss Glasson been seeing each other?”
The second man fired his camera. The flashbulb went off, searing the night.
“What about you, Miss Glasson?” the first man said. “Care to comment on the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ward?”
“We’re friends,” Irene said, her voice very tight.
She managed to find her key. Oliver took it from her, got her up the steps, and opened the door.
“You heard the lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Just friends.”
He hauled her into the lobby and slammed the door shut.
Footsteps pounded away down the sidewalk. Somewhere out on the street a car engine roared to life.
“Damn,” Irene said. She freed herself from the circle of Oliver’s arm and slipped off his jacket. “I’m supposed to be the one writing the story—not the subject of the story. How bad is this going to be?”
“I have no idea,” Oliver said. “Someone sent that pair to ambush us.”
“Tremayne’s studio?”
“Probably. The question is, what do they plan to do with the photos?”
“Neither of us is a star,” Irene said. “I can’t imagine any newspaper or Hollywood magazine paying for those shots.”
“You know, for an orphan who stopped dreaming fanciful dreams when she was fourteen, you’ve got a very optimistic attitude.”