“I thought you didn’t like guns,” Irene said.
“I don’t,” Oliver said. He drank some whiskey, lowered the glass, and rested his head against the back of the armchair. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t occasionally useful.”
Irene came to a halt in the middle of the living room and surveyed him with a critical eye. He knew the look all too well. He had been getting it every few minutes since they had walked through his front door a short time ago.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. Again.
“I’m fine,” he said, lying through his teeth.
He was heartily tired of the question but he told himself she meant well. He tried to sort through his mixed reactions to her concern. Sure, it was nice that she cared. But he hated knowing that she had seen him at his weakest that night.
He downed a healthy dose of whiskey to take his mind off the pain and his own miserable performance.
He was sitting in one of the big leather chairs in front of the fireplace, his damned leg propped on a hassock. Shortly after Irene had brought him home, he ordered a large quantity of ice from room service. He now had three ice bags draped over his bad leg.
Irene swallowed some of her own whiskey and resumed her pacing.
“Nick Tremayne used poor Daisy Jennings to lure us to that warehouse tonight and then he murdered her,” she said.
“I agree that’s how it looks,” Oliver said. He drank some more whiskey. “But it will probably be impossible to prove unless Springer wakes up and starts talking.”
Irene shook her head. “I never meant to drag you into this situation.”
“We’ve already had that conversation. I’d just as soon not reopen it, if you don’t mind.”
She stopped pacing and met his eyes. Whatever she saw there must have convinced her he meant every word.
“All right,” she said, uncharacteristically meek. She waved one hand in a vague gesture. “The problem now is, I don’t know what to do next.”
“Let’s see what Detective Brandon does. The cops can’t brush off Springer and his pal, not now that there’s another dead woman.”
“Another drowning victim who just happens to be one of Nick Tremayne’s lovers,” Irene said.
Oliver paused the whiskey glass halfway to his mouth and watched her very deliberately, willing her to understand the significance of what had happened.
“Daisy Jennings is dead, but she was not the only target tonight,” he said.
“I realize that.” Irene put her glass down. “You and I were also targets.”
“Not me,” he said. “You. No one knew I was along for the ride. Not until it was all over.”
She watched him, stricken. “I’m so—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t say it. What I’m getting at is that we now know for certain that someone is prepared to do whatever it takes to stop you. Springer said he and his pal were hired to scare you. That may be true. They may even believe it was the objective. But I think that whoever hired that pair to set fire to the warehouse would have been quite satisfied if you had died in the blaze.”
Irene took a deep breath and went to stand at the window, looking out at the patio and the moonlit ocean.
“My death in that warehouse would have made things simpler for him,” she said.
“Yes. In addition, it would have provided a neat explanation for Jennings’s death.”
“The cops would have assumed that I killed her and then died when I accidentally knocked over a lantern and set fire to the warehouse. But what’s my motive? Why would I murder Daisy Jennings?”
“I agree that the story is weak when it comes to motive, but I doubt if anyone would worry about that too much. The police would be happy to have it all tied up in a neat package.”
Irene turned around. “Tonight was different because Tremayne used fire against me. Daisy and Gloria Maitland and the others were all made to look like cases of accidental drowning.”
“There could have been any number of reasons for the change in his pattern. Magicians rework the same illusions in a variety of ways to keep the act convincing. The killer probably decided that two drowning victims at the same scene tonight would have been a little hard for the cops to ignore. Besides, fire has a number of advantages.”
“Advantages?”
“It’s a classic and highly effective way of destroying evidence.”
Irene pondered that. “I see what you mean.”
“The real question is, where did the killer find Springer and Dallas?”
“Springer implied that he and his pal were hired muscle,” Irene said.
“Tremayne is from out of town. He wouldn’t know how to find local muscle.”
“So he brought Springer and Dallas in from L.A.”
“Maybe,” Oliver said. “Or maybe the studio provided the pair to clean up the mess Tremayne made here in Burning Cove. There’s no point speculating tonight. We need more information. We do know one thing, however.”
Irene frowned. “What?”
“It’s obvious now that you’re a target. You should not be alone, not until we find out who tried to kill you tonight.”
She gave him a sharp, unreadable look and then turned her back to him. Her shoulders were very straight.
“I can’t afford to hire a bodyguard, if that’s what you’re about to suggest,” she said. “And I’m sure my editor won’t pay for one—not for long, at least. How does one even go about hiring a bodyguard, anyway?”
“Forget the bodyguard. Finding one who knows his business and can be trusted isn’t easy. You’ll be better off staying here, with me, until this situation gets resolved.”
She turned around. “Here? At the hotel, you mean?”
“Here, in my private quarters. In spite of what happened to Gloria Maitland, I can promise you that I really do have good security, certainly better than the security at the Cove Inn. You’ll be reasonably safe if you stay on the grounds of the hotel.”
She stared at him, floored. It took her a moment to recover.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s a very generous offer but, really, it’s not necessary.”
“My bedroom is down the hall,” he said. He spoke very deliberately. “On this floor. The guest suite is upstairs, if you will recall. You saw it the night you found Maitland’s body in the spa.”
He waited for his meaning to sink in.
She flushed. “I never meant to imply—”
“Trust me when I tell you that I avoid going up and down stairs whenever possible. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”
She turned red. “I don’t doubt for a moment that you would be a perfect gentleman.”
He wasn’t sure that was a compliment but he let it go.
“Good,” he said. “It’s settled, then.”
She got a stubborn look. “We both know I can’t stay holed up here at the Burning Cove Hotel indefinitely; I’ve got a job that I can’t afford to lose. I’ve also got an apartment in L.A. My editor told me that someone broke in while I’ve been out of town.”
“What the hell? Your apartment was burglarized?”
“Evidently. I was planning to drive to the city today to get some fresh clothes and take a look around to see if the burglar stole anything. I’ll have to go tomorrow, instead.” She glanced at the clock. “Make that today.”
“Has it occurred to you that the break-in might be connected to your Nick Tremayne story?”
“Of course. Probably a studio job.”
“I can’t help but notice that you don’t seem overly concerned.”
“Naturally I’m concerned. But it tells me I’m on the right track.”
“You’re going to keep working on the Tremayne story?” He grimaced. “Of course you are. What was I thinking?”
“If I give up now, Nick Tremayne will continue to murder his lovers and get away with it. Tonight was a turning point. I can feel it. He’s starting to panic.”
“We can’t solve all of your problems tonight, but we can deal with one of them—your safety. Spend the night here. I’ll send someone to the inn to pick up your things. We’ll get more information from the cops in the morning. That should help us decide what to do next.”
She blinked. “Us?”
He swallowed the last of the whiskey and lowered the glass.
“Us,” he said.
She fell silent, as if she could not think of a response. He should probably take her lack of enthusiasm as a personal affront.
She started to resume her pacing but stopped midway across the room.
“Daisy’s handbag,” she said. “I forgot about it. I suppose we should give it to Detective Brandon.”
They both looked at the green handbag sitting on the coffee table where Irene had dropped it earlier.
“Open it,” Oliver said.
Irene went to the coffee table, picked up the bag, and opened it. She took out a lipstick, a compact, a hankie, a small coin purse, and a sheet of folded paper.
She unfolded the paper. “Looks like notes. Handwritten.”
She read a few sentences out loud.
“Trust me, you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to tell you. I know what really happened the night Gloria Maitland died.
“There’s a phone booth on the corner of Olive and Palm streets. Be there at eleven thirty tonight. I’ll call you and tell you where to meet me.
“There’s an old abandoned warehouse at the end of Miramar Road . . . Remember, come alone. Deal’s off if I see anyone else.”
Irene stopped and looked up, shocked.
“It’s a script,” she said. “Someone gave Daisy Jennings a script to make sure she got all her lines right.”
“Is that the end of the script?”
Irene looked down again. “No. There’s another line. It’s scribbled in on the side of the page. A last-minute addition, maybe. Ask Tremayne about Island Nights and Pirate’s Captive.”
“Those sound like film titles,” Oliver said.
“But those aren’t the two movies that Tremayne made in Hollywood.”
“Tremayne wouldn’t be the first fast-rising star to have a couple of pornographic movies in his past.”
“That’s the sort of problem that studios fix all the time,” Irene said. “You don’t kill someone because of a pornographic film.” She hesitated. “Do you?”
“That probably depends on what’s on the film.”
“Are we going to give this script to Detective Brandon?” Irene asked.
“Not until we know for sure what’s going on.”