“What the devil is going on there in Burning Cove?” Velma Lancaster’s voice roared through the telephone line. “According to Silver Screen Secrets, you’re dating that ex-magician, the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel. And the competition gets the story? What am I paying you for?”
Irene clutched the phone and gazed, dumbfounded, at the front page of Silver Screen Secrets. Mrs. Fordyce had thoughtfully left the paper on the front desk counter where Irene could not miss seeing the large photo.
The picture was not a flattering one. Her mouth was open. Her eyes were wide with shock. All in all she had the horrified expression of a woman caught in flagrante delicto. It did not help that Oliver’s white dinner jacket was draped around her shoulders and that he had her in a viselike grip.
It struck her as grossly unfair that Oliver somehow managed to appear both coldly dangerous and compellingly attractive. The fact that he was no longer wearing his dinner jacket added what could only be described as an extremely sensual element to the picture.
The caption that accompanied the photo had been written to put the worst possible light on the subject.
Ex-magician Mr. Oliver Ward and his new romantic interest,
Miss Irene Glasson, reporter.
Irene huddled over the phone and lowered her voice to a whisper.
“It’s not what it looks like,” she said.
“What?” Velma shouted. “I can’t hear you.”
Irene raised her voice a little. “I said it’s not what it looks like.”
Mrs. Fordyce was pretending to be busy behind the counter but she was practically vibrating with curiosity. It was clear that she was listening to every word.
“You’re in the newspaper business,” Velma snapped. “You know damned well that a photo or a story is exactly what it looks like. Perception is everything. It looks like you’re involved in a murder investigation and you’re dating the owner of the hotel in which the murder occurred. What’s more, said hotel owner just happens to be the famous ex-magician who was nearly killed onstage in his final act.”
“This doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone outside Burning Cove give a darn about my personal life?”
“With the exception of me and your colleagues here at Whispers, no one does give a damn about your personal life. It’s Ward’s personal life that made the picture newsworthy.”
“I don’t understand. He said he wasn’t worried about the L.A. press because he was no longer a headliner.”
“Turns out he’s wrong. Evidently the press is still mighty curious about a famous magician who disappeared after nearly getting himself killed onstage. Nice dress, by the way. How in the hell did you afford that frock on what I’m paying you?”
“I got it as a loan courtesy of Mr. Ward’s hotel.”
“Oliver Ward gave it to you?”
“Don’t start with the innuendos. My association with Oliver Ward is strictly business.”
“Interesting business you’re in these days.”
“Mr. Ward is assisting me in my investigation,” Irene said coldly.
“Yeah? Read the rest of the story.”
Irene scanned the piece quickly.
That legendary man of magic, Mr. Oliver Ward, who pulled off a disappearing act after a disastrous accident onstage, has materialized in the community of Burning Cove, California. He now operates an exclusive hotel that caters to the rich and famous of Hollywood.
Last night Mr. Ward was seen escorting Miss Irene Glasson to a notorious nightclub in the seaside community.
One wonders if the once-great magician knows that he is dating a member of the press who works for a small-time L.A. newspaper. Evidently Miss Glasson has been questioned in connection with the drowning death of one of Mr. Ward’s hotel guests.
Perhaps even a skilled illusionist can be deceived by cheap goods.
“Cheap goods?” Irene repeated.
“Afraid so.”
“My reputation aside, evidently Oliver Ward was right.”
“Speaking personally, I take great exception to the description of Whispers as a small-time paper,” Velma said. “Secrets didn’t even print the name of my paper.” There was a slight pause. “What do you mean, Ward was right?”
“Our date last night was supposed to be an act of misdirection. Evidently it worked.”
“How is this an example of misdirection? In case you didn’t notice, there is a strong hint that you had something to do with Maitland’s death. Guilt by association, I think it’s called—not misdirection.”
“Never mind, Boss. Look, things are happening here. I need to talk to some more people in Burning Cove. I’ve got to stay on a couple more days.”
“Bad idea.”
Irene ignored her. “I didn’t pack for an extended stay, so I’m going to drive back to L.A. today to pick up some fresh clothes. I also need to see if anything was stolen from my apartment during the burglary. I’ll stop by the office and fill you in on what’s going on here. Once I have a chance to lay it out for you, you’ll realize this story is red-hot.”
“I suppose you expect me to keep paying the tab at that inn where you’re staying in Burning Cove.”
“This is going to be the story that makes Whispers the number one newspaper in Los Angeles, Boss.”
“Or puts it out of business,” Velma said.
“This isn’t just about Tremayne,” Irene said. “It’s about Peggy, remember?”
“All right, all right, I’ll spring for another couple of days at the inn. But don’t bother writing up another story with Tremayne’s name in it unless you’ve got rock-solid proof that he’s guilty.”
“Thanks. You won’t regret it.”
“What about the dress?”
“What dress?”
“The one you were wearing in the photo,” Velma said patiently. “The one that is probably worth more than I pay you in a year.”
Irene thought about the gown hanging in the closet in her room. “I told you, it was just on loan. I’ll be returning it to the management of the Burning Cove Hotel today.”
“Too bad. It looked good on you.”
“It was just a prop.”