Irene sat quietly, thinking about what Claudia had said. After a while she got to her feet and went along the arched walkway to Oliver’s office.
Elena smiled when she opened the door. “Hello, Irene. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, thank you, Elena. And you?”
“Excellent, thanks. Are you here to see Mr. Ward?”
“Yes. Is he in his office?”
“He is. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Elena pressed the intercom button. “Miss Glasson is here, sir.”
“Send her in. I was about to go looking for her.”
Elena started to get to her feet to open the door.
“Don’t bother, please, I’ll get it.” Irene crossed the room. She paused, her hand on the knob, and looked back at Elena. “Do you ever get tired of all the sunshine here in California?”
Elena laughed. “Are you kidding? I was born and raised here. I love the light.”
Irene smiled. “I’m not from around here but I agree with you. I love the light, too. Oddly enough, not everyone does.”
She walked into Oliver’s office and closed the door behind her. He got to his feet.
“There you are,” he said. “I was about to go looking for you. Chester just briefed me on what he discovered about Atherton’s notebook. Those calculations are for a highly advanced version of a military device called a rangekeeper. Saltwood evidently has a secret contract with the Navy.”
“We’re talking about espionage?”
“That’s what it looks like. Chester agrees with the advice that Helen Spencer gave you in her letter, by the way. He says we’ll be asking for a lot of trouble if we contact the FBI.”
Irene shuddered. “We’ll become suspects in an espionage case.”
“Yes.”
“Good heavens. This thing just gets deeper and deeper, doesn’t it?”
“I think we’re finally able to put a few pieces of the puzzle together. Did Teddy help you locate Claudia Picton?”
“Teddy?”
“Sorry,” Oliver said. “He prefers his stage name. Mr. Fontaine. Occasionally I forget. To me he’ll always be Teddy, the guy who somehow got the whole show, crew, props, and equipment packed up and on the right train heading for the next town. The man’s brilliant when it comes to logistics.”
“Claudia was right where Mr. Fontaine said she would be at three fifteen—the tearoom. I was hoping to rattle her a bit but she didn’t tell me much. She did mention that Nick Tremayne was playing golf with a new acquaintance, someone he met at the hotel.”
“Who?”
“A Mr. Enright.”
Oliver sat down, looking thoughtful. “That is very interesting.”
“Why?” she asked, taking a seat.
“There is a Julian Enright of New York on my list.”
“A single man? Traveling alone?”
“Yes. A gentleman with expensive tastes and a sense of style—the sort of style that, I’m told, can only be acquired by someone who descends from several generations of moldy money. Mr. Fontaine was very impressed.”
“You didn’t point out this Julian Enright in the hotel restaurant last night.”
“He wasn’t there.” Oliver held up a list with four names on it. “Enright was one of the few who chose to dine in town.”
“‘A gentleman with expensive tastes and a sense of style,’” Irene repeated softly. “Doesn’t sound like a killer, does he?”
“Not the Hollywood movie version, perhaps. But do you think it’s possible that such a man might have succeeded in deceiving Helen Spencer?”
“Maybe. Why would a killer on a mission to recover the notebook take up with a hot Hollywood talent?”
“It’s quite possible that Enright is aware of your recent reporting.”
“So?”
“So, since you have helpfully laid the groundwork for pointing the finger of blame at Nick Tremayne in one recent death, why not use Tremayne as cover?”
“I don’t understand.”
“If something were to happen to you, Irene, who do you think would come under immediate suspicion?”
She caught her breath at the sheer audacity of the idea.
“Nick Tremayne,” she said. “Everyone knows he’s furious with me because of that piece I wrote for Whispers.”
“He might have a rock-solid alibi—enough to keep him from going to jail—but that wouldn’t matter in the court of public opinion. I wouldn’t be surprised if the murder of a certain reporter here in Burning Cove where Tremayne just happens to be vacationing might be too much for even a powerful studio to handle—especially if the murder was staged so that it was clear it was no accident.”
A vision of Helen Spencer’s bloody corpse flashed into Irene’s mind. Her fingers trembled.
“Perception is everything,” she said. “There would be a huge scandal, lots of speculation and gossip. And while all that was going on, the real killer would quietly vanish from the scene. It’s a stunning idea.”
“Damned brilliant piece of misdirection when you think about it.”
“It certainly worked in Helen’s murder. The police assumed from the outset that they were looking for an insane killer.”
“A criminally insane private secretary, to be specific,” Oliver said.
“No need to remind me. Such a scheme also fits with your sense of the killer’s arrogance.”
“Yes, but if we’re right, that arrogance is the plan’s fatal flaw.”
“At least we know the identity of Helen’s killer.”
“We may know it,” Oliver said. “We need to be certain. Did you get Claudia Picton to say anything else?”
“Well, she raised the specter of the mysterious Mr. Ogden again.”
“Men like Ernie Ogden usually resort to cash payments when they want to make problems disappear. But if money doesn’t do the job, he wouldn’t hesitate to apply brute force to clean up a mess.”
“I’ve been focused on Nick Tremayne from the start because of Peggy’s notes. But what if she was wrong? Do you think that Ogden might go so far as to have someone murder a woman if he thought she was a threat to his star?”
“If he couldn’t bribe her or frighten her, it’s conceivable,” Oliver said. “But I knew Daisy Jennings. Pell knew her, too. Both of us are convinced that money would have worked. There was no reason to murder her to keep her quiet.”
“Unless she knew something about Nick Tremayne that was so damaging that Ogden didn’t want to take any chances. What if she could implicate Tremayne in Gloria Maitland’s murder?”
“Yeah, that might be enough for Ogden to send in the heavy muscle. But if that’s true, it means the studio considers Tremayne absolutely crucial to the bottom line.”
“I can tell you one thing: Bribery wouldn’t have worked with Peggy Hackett.”
“You’re sure?”
“Peggy was trying to get her career back on track,” Irene said. “She wasn’t after money. She wanted a headline.”
“Get anything else from Picton?”
“She warned me that Ogden can be ruthless. It’s obvious she’s scared of him. She also said she’s decided she’s not cut out for Hollywood or Burning Cove. She just wants to get enough money together to go home, get a job, and get married.”
“Married?”
“Married. Ever tried it?”
“No,” Oliver said. “Came close once upon a time. Got engaged. But it didn’t work out. You?”
“Same story. I thought I was going to marry someone once. But it didn’t work out.”
“The lying, cheating bastard you mentioned in the prop locker?”
“He neglected to mention that he was engaged to someone. When his fiancée informed me of the facts, the lying, cheating bastard thought it was odd that I didn’t want to play the part of his mistress.”
Oliver nodded with a sage air. “Yeah, that lying and cheating stuff will ruin a perfectly good relationship every time.”
Irene propped her elbows on the arms of her chair and put her fingertips together.
“You speak from personal experience, I assume?” she said.
“I do. She was one of my assistants. Ran off with a man I considered a trusted employee. He handled the bookings, ticket sales, and advance publicity for the act.”
“I see.”
“They eloped to Hawaii.”
“Very romantic.” Irene tapped her fingertips together once. “Costs money to travel all the way to Hawaii by steamship or airplane. And then there’s the price of a hotel room. You must have paid your staff well.”
“I like to think so, but evidently Dora and Hubert didn’t agree. On their way out the door, they helped themselves to the cash receipts from nearly two months of performances.”
“Given that the Amazing Oliver Ward usually played to packed houses, that would have been a tidy sum.”
“It was,” Oliver said. “They sent me a postcard from Hawaii apologizing and explaining that they could not deny their hearts. Said they hoped I would understand.”
“Well, look on the bright side,” Irene said. “At least the card didn’t say wish you were here.”
Oliver surprised her with a grin. “Thanks for putting things into perspective. Did you get any revenge?”
“Of the petty sort. The company was in a fierce bidding war with a competitor. The deal involved obtaining the license on a patented device used in the oil business. The lying, cheating bastard was in charge of negotiating the licensing agreement. But I was the one who had done all of the background research. I assembled all the necessary facts and figures. I was about to put everything together in a neat, tidy report for the lying, cheating bastard when the fiancée stopped by the office to inform me of the reality of my situation.”
“Can I assume that something dire happened to the neat, tidy report?”
“Nothing at all happened to it because it never came into existence. That was the beauty of my revenge, you see. On my way out the door I dropped the file with all the raw data on the lying, cheating bastard’s desk. I knew he wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails out of my notes. They were all in shorthand—my own private version.”
Oliver smiled. “They might as well have been written in a secret code.”
“As for the figures, well, he was the first to admit that he never did have a head for numbers.”
“I’m guessing the deal fell through?”
“The rival company obtained the license to the device.”
“Was the lying, cheating bastard fired?” Oliver asked.
“Of course not. His fiancée was the daughter of the owner of the company, and she was determined to marry the lying, cheating bastard. The fiancée was daddy’s little girl, so the lying, cheating bastard got promoted to vice president.”
“Naturally.”
“I’ve heard that revenge rarely works out well. Last I heard the bastard and his wife were living happily ever after somewhere in Connecticut. A real Hollywood ending.”
“I doubt it.”
“So do I,” Irene said. “Truth be told, I even feel sorry for her. After all, she married a lying, cheating bastard.”
“People don’t change. They are what they are.”
“That’s my theory, too,” Irene said.