“The actor?”
Oliver sounded curious but not startled, Irene thought.
“Yes, Mr. Ward, the actor. I’m sure you know him. I believe that he is currently registered here as a guest. Tremayne and Maitland were involved in an affair that ended rather badly, at least from Maitland’s point of view. But I’m sure you know that. The news was in all the Hollywood papers.”
“I never give out personal information on my guests,” Oliver said.
“Yes, you keep mentioning that policy. Look, I’m not asking you to confirm or deny Tremayne’s presence in this hotel. I know he’s here because Gloria Maitland told me that much when she called my office.”
“You think that the other person in the spa tonight was Tremayne.”
It wasn’t a question.
She was on treacherous ground now. Nick Tremayne was under contract with one of the most powerful movie studios in Hollywood. His first film, Sea of Shadows, had been an unexpected hit. His latest, Fortune’s Rogue, had transformed Tremayne from rising talent to box office gold. He was suddenly worth a lot of money to his employers, which meant that they would go to great lengths to protect their investment.
She had been in Los Angeles long enough to know that the men at the top of the big studios ran Hollywood and, by extension, much of the city of Los Angeles. They routinely paid off cops, judges, and assorted politicians. Making an inexperienced reporter from a small-time gossip paper disappear would be no problem at all. She had to be very careful.
The studio execs weren’t the only ones with a vested interest in Nick Tremayne. Oliver Ward made a very good living providing at least the illusion of privacy to his Hollywood clientele. He had every reason to protect guests like Tremayne.
She had probably said far too much already, thanks to the whiskey and the state of her nerves. Time to take a step back.
She managed a steely smile. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Ward. I wouldn’t dream of implying that I thought Nick Tremayne was the other person in your spa tonight.”
He accepted that statement with equanimity. He had probably seen it coming, she decided.
“I understand your reluctance to confide in me,” he said. “But if you’re telling the truth about what happened this evening, then you might want to reconsider.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if you are being honest, then I give you my word that we share the same goal.”
“Which is?”
“Finding out who killed Gloria Maitland.”
She went very still. For some inexplicable reason she was inclined to believe him. But she had learned the hard way that her intuition was not to be trusted.
“What happens if it turns out that one of your guests is the killer?” she asked. “A wealthy guest who has powerful connections? One who has every reason to expect you to keep his or her secrets?”
Oliver gave her a politely quizzical look. “If my guests choose to assume that I will keep all of their secrets, that’s up to them.”
“But you allow them to think that you will protect them.”
“My services do not extend to protecting a killer.”
She gripped the lapels of her robe. “I want to go back to the Cove Inn now, Mr. Ward. I need to think about this.”
“If you insist.” He pushed himself to his feet and gripped his cane. “You said you left your car on a side road behind the hotel?”
She leaped to her feet. “Yes. I didn’t want to ask one of the valets to park it for me.”
“In case you decided to leave in a hurry and didn’t want to have to wait while the valet fetched your vehicle? Never mind. You don’t have to answer that question. I’ll walk you to your car.”
“That’s not necessary, really.”
“It’s going on two o’clock in the morning, Miss Glasson, and if you are telling the truth, there is a murderer on the loose. He or she may still be on the grounds of this hotel. I insist on seeing you safely off the premises.”
He had a point, she thought. The one thing she knew for certain tonight was that Oliver Ward was not the person she had encountered in the spa chamber. The killer had not limped or used a cane.
There was another reason she was sure that Ward was not the murderer. She had a feeling that if he wanted to get rid of someone, he would handle the business with efficiency and finesse. He would have created a convincing illusion of an accident.
But not even the most practiced killer could plan for every detail, she reminded herself. Sometimes things went wrong, even for one of the world’s greatest magicians.
Oliver Ward, after all, was in a new line of work because two years ago things had gone very, very wrong for him.