They were finishing a breakfast of fresh melon, creamy scrambled eggs, and toast on the patio when the phone rang. Oliver grabbed his cane and got to his feet.
“With luck that will be Brandon with an update,” he said.
He disappeared into the living room to take the call. Irene slathered butter on a slice of toast and watched the sun dance on Oliver’s private pool.
She tried to ignore the nervy sensation that abruptly knotted her stomach. She reminded herself that she and Oliver had been expecting the call. The problem was that she had been savoring the intimacy of the moment—a perfect breakfast on the patio at the start of another perfect California morning.
It was all a little too perfect. Reality had been bound to intrude.
Oliver reappeared a few minutes later. His expression was severe but she could sense the energy in the atmosphere around him.
“Well?” she said.
He lowered himself into the chair across from her. He seemed to be moving more easily this morning, she thought. She took that as a sign that he had not inflicted too much damage on his poor leg during the night. Scratch the poor, she thought. The man had his pride. She respected that.
“Brandon says Springer and his pal—a guy who goes by the name of Dallas—are both hired muscle,” Oliver said.
“We guessed that much. The question is, who hired them?”
“According to Springer, he and Dallas are both professional stuntmen. Seems work at the studios has been a little slow lately, so they’ve been picking up some extra cash by doing odd jobs for a shady character named McAllister, otherwise known as Hollywood Mack. Springer claims that he and his pal don’t know who commissioned the arson last night. He says Hollywood Mack never tells them the name of the so-called client, but Brandon made some telephone calls to a pal in the L.A. police department. Evidently Hollywood Mack is reputed to perform certain services for some of the studios—including the one that has Tremayne under contract.”
“In other words, Hollywood Mack rents out his tough guys to the fixers who are in charge of cleaning up the messes created by the studios’ stars.”
“Cleaners, fixers, studio execs, whatever you call them, it’s their job to make scandals disappear,” Oliver said.
“So, someone at Tremayne’s studio hired those two stuntmen to get rid of me?”
“Brandon says Springer is sticking to his story. He was hired to torch the warehouse. He and his pal knew you would be there. But the idea was to scare you, not kill you.”
“But what about Daisy Jennings? How did Springer explain her body?”
“That’s the really interesting part,” Oliver said. “Springer swears up and down that he didn’t know there was a dead woman at the scene. Says all he and his pal were told was that a woman would be there and that they were to scare the hell out of her by setting fire to the place. You weren’t supposed to die, Springer says. He insists they didn’t know that old warehouse would go up like a torch. He expected you to come running out.”
“No. I’m sure that I was supposed to be dead or unconscious in that warehouse before Springer and Dallas arrived. The fire would have destroyed all the evidence at the scene. You were right. It would have looked like I accidentally died in a blaze that I started to cover up the murder of Daisy Jennings.”
“Yes,” Oliver said evenly. “I think that was the killer’s plan.”
“But everything went wrong because you accompanied me to the warehouse.”
“Finish your coffee. My car should be ready by now. Chester checked it over this morning and topped off the gas tank.”
A little thrill of excitement pulsed through her.
“We’re taking your car?” she asked, trying to make it sound casual.
“Yeah. I don’t trust that old sedan of yours. It’s a long drive to L.A. and back, and most of it is open, empty country. Not a lot of gas stations on the way. We don’t want to get stranded.”
“Right. A long trip. No need for you to do all the driving. I’ll be happy to give you a break.”
“No.”
“Several hours of driving will be hard on your leg.”
“No.”
“It’s a lovely day. We can put the top down.”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever let anyone drive your car?”
“No.”