Willie liked polishing martini glasses and suspending them by their stems in the overhead rack. She found the chore soothing, a form of meditation. She was engaged in the practice when Irene walked into the lounge looking like a woman who needed a confidante.
Willie recognized the expression. When you worked behind a bar, you saw it a lot.
It was going on ten o’clock in the morning and there were no guests in the bar yet. That was not unusual. Some of the early risers were playing either golf or tennis. Several were working off the effects of the previous night’s partying with a massage and a stint in the spa’s steam room. A few were sleeping late—not necessarily with their own spouses. She had already sent several orders of her signature eye-opener, Red Sally—a cocktail involving tomato juice, vodka, and a lot of salt and hot sauce—to people who had ordered room service.
Irene hitched up her trousers, plunked herself down on a bar stool, and folded her arms on the polished wooden surface.
So this is the boss’s new lady friend, Willie thought.
She was as curious about Irene as everyone else on the staff.
“You must be Miss Glasson,” she said. “Welcome to the Burning Cove Hotel. I’m Willie, by the way.”
Irene had walked in with the look of a woman who was lost in her own thoughts, but at the greeting she immediately refocused her attention and smiled.
The smile was real, Willie decided. She saw all kinds. She was pretty good at separating the false ones from the genuine article. All that experience as a magician’s assistant had served her well in her new career.
“You worked with Oliver in his show, didn’t you?” Irene said.
“Oliver told you about me?”
“A little, not much. He mentioned that several of the people employed here at the Burning Cove, including you, had worked with him in the Amazing Oliver Ward Show.”
“That’s right,” Willie said. “After the show closed, Mr. Ward could have let all of us go. Instead, he used every last dime he had to buy this hotel. He couldn’t afford to pay us back at the start, but we had room and board so we stuck around. The place started turning a profit last year. The pay is good, so we’re all still here. What can I get you?”
“Do you serve coffee in here?”
“I do.”
“In that case, I’ll have some, thank you.”
Willie set a cup and saucer on the bar, picked up a pot, and poured the coffee.
“I see the boss let you out on your own this morning,” she said. “Does that mean he thinks your problem has been resolved?”
Irene drummed her fingers on the counter. “I suppose everyone on the staff knows that Oliver thinks I need round-the-clock security.”
“Sure. We also know that you helped get him out of that burning warehouse the other night.”
Irene sipped some coffee. “As I keep pointing out to people, it was my fault that he was in that warehouse in the first place.”
Willie picked up another glass and started polishing it. “The boss makes his own rules. If he was there with you, it was because he wanted to be there.”
“That’s more or less what he told me.”
“It’s the truth. We all know he’s worried about your safety. He’s always had good security here at the hotel, but during the past few days he’s given orders to double down on the routine patrols, and he’s cranked up the lighting at night. The grounds are lit up like a stage at three in the morning now. That said, you seem to be running free today.”
Irene wrinkled her nose. “For a while. He’s handling some business in his office. I didn’t want to sit there, staring at him or reading a magazine while he made telephone calls and did whatever hotel executives do. He figured I’d be safe here in the bar.”
“He’s right. We’ve got good security in here, too. There’s a button I can push if I don’t like what’s going on. One of the guards would be here in a minute or two at the most.”
“That’s good to know.” Irene patted her handbag. “I’m not helpless. I’ve got a gun.”
“So do I,” Willie said. She held the martini glass up to the light to check her work. “I keep it under the bar.”
Interest and curiosity sparked in Irene’s eyes. “Really?”
“Old habit from the days when we were on the road. Some towns were rougher than others. Every so often some jerk decided to rob the ticket office or hassle one of the assistants.”
“You, for instance?”
Willie gave her a humorless smile. “Me, for instance.”
“Does Oliver know about the gun under the bar?”
“Yes.”
“He told me he doesn’t like guns.”
“What do you expect? He almost got killed by one.”
“He says guns give people a false sense of security. He says you never know when one will jam on you.”
“Sounds like the two of you had an extensive conversation on the subject.”
“Uh-huh.” Irene drank some more coffee and put the cup down with great care. “Once, in another life, I had an employer who owned a gun. But in the end it didn’t do her any good. She was murdered by some bastard who used a knife.”
“What happened?”
“She made the mistake of trusting the wrong person.”
“Trust is a dangerous thing.”
“Yes, it is,” Irene said. “But you get very lonely if you don’t have someone you can trust.”
“You can trust the boss.”
Irene smiled. “He obviously trusts you.”
“We go back a ways.”
Irene turned thoughtful. “He says you can read people as well as he can.”
“Bartenders in general are good at reading people. You could say it’s a job requirement.”
Irene met her eyes. “You probably know that I’m suspicious of Nick Tremayne.”
“Everyone who reads the newspapers knows that.”
“Care to give me your take on him?”
Willie chuckled. “Funny you should ask.”
“Why?”
“Because the boss asked the same question the morning your story broke in Whispers. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I think Nick Tremayne is very, very ambitious. I also think he’s got a temper.”
“Ever seen him lose it?”
“No. But the other day I happened to see that personal assistant of his after she came out of his villa. She looked shaken. Downright scared, I think.”
“Claudia Picton? I think she’s terrified of losing her job.” Irene took a sip and set her cup down on the saucer with a clink. “My intuition tells me she’s the weak link in this thing. I need to speak with her again. That means I have to get her alone.”
“The boss might not approve.”
“I’ve seen enough of Claudia Picton to know that she’ll never open up if Oliver is with me. He’ll intimidate her.”
“You’re probably right. It’s obvious that Miss Picton’s nerves are in bad shape. Wouldn’t take much to send her into a complete panic.”
“What else do you know about her?” Irene asked.
“Not a lot. She doesn’t come into my bar.”
“Maybe she doesn’t drink.”
“Either that or the studio won’t cover her bar tab,” Willie said.
“I didn’t see her in the restaurant last night but I guess that’s no surprise. Most women don’t like to be seen dining alone.”
“Maybe she went out to a local café,” Willie suggested.
“Who would know?”
Willie smiled. “The concierge, Mr. Fontaine. When it comes to the habits and preferences of the guests, a good concierge is better than a private detective.”
“Think Mr. Fontaine will talk to me?”
“Only if Mr. Ward tells him to talk to you.”
“I need to call Oliver.”
“There’s a house telephone behind the bar.”
“May I use it?”
“Help yourself.”
Irene moved around behind the bar and reached for the receiver.
“Thanks, Willie,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Willie held another glass up to the light to check her polishing job. “Happy to be of service. Out of curiosity, how do you plan to persuade Miss Picton to meet with you in private?”
“I don’t. I’m going to stage an ambush.” Irene concentrated on the telephone. “Please connect me with Mr. Ward’s private office. Thank you. Yes, I’ll wait.”
Willie smiled to herself.
“Something amusing?” Irene asked.
“I was just thinking that you’re a good influence on the boss.”
“A good influence? Are you joking? I found a dead body in his spa and I nearly got him killed.”
“You wouldn’t believe how he’s perked up since you arrived at the hotel. You’ve done wonders. A regular tonic.”