“The ink is still wet. No one’s going to want to read a wet paper. And at the rate it was printing, it’s going to take a very long time to get the front page out of the machine.”
Chester grunted. His bushy brows scrunched together. “The slow speed of the printer and the fact that the ink needs time to dry are problems, but I’m working on them.” He looked up and squinted at the headline of Whispers. “What’s it say?”
Oliver read the headline aloud.
ACTRESS FOUND DEAD IN BURNING COVE HOTEL SPA.
WAS IT MURDER?
“Well, damn,” Chester muttered. “That reporter lady didn’t waste any time, did she?”
“No,” Oliver said grimly. “She did not. Must have telephoned her editor right after she got back to the Cove Inn last night. The editor, in turn, must have moved heaven and earth to get the story on the front page in time for today’s edition.”
“Huh,” Chester said. “Well, Whispers is a small paper. Doubt if very many people read it.”
“They will read it today,” Oliver said. “And by tomorrow morning, the story will be in every paper in the country.”
“Nah. Gloria Maitland wasn’t a famous actress. She was just another pretty face who went to Hollywood to become a star. She didn’t make it.”
“True, but Nick Tremayne is fast becoming a household name, and he is mentioned in the piece.”
Chester started to look worried. “How bad is the story?”
“The article states that Tremayne happens to be vacationing at the same hotel as the dead woman. But the big problem is that there is a thinly veiled reference to a rumor that Tremayne and Maitland once enjoyed a romantic liaison.”
Chester pursed his lips. “That’s not good.”
“No,” Oliver said. “It’s not.”
Chester clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheer up. Not the first time we’ve had a little scandal here at the hotel. It will all blow over in a day or two. You’ll see. Just more publicity.”
Oliver tossed his copy of Whispers down on the nearest workbench. It landed on top of the latest issue of Popular Science, Chester’s favorite reading material. The cover of the magazine featured an artist’s rendering of a futuristic war machine designed to navigate on land and sea.
“This isn’t the kind of publicity the hotel needs,” Oliver said.
Chester squinted thoughtfully. “Are the police looking into the death of Miss Maitland?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t talked to Brandon this morning. He’s a good man. I know he has his suspicions but I’ll be surprised if Chief Richards allows him to conduct a serious investigation.”
Chester snorted. “Everyone knows that Richards owes his cushy job to the city council, and the council likes to pretend that there is no crime in Burning Cove. Bad for business.”
“Right. So unless Brandon comes up with some hard evidence, Maitland’s death will go down as a tragic accident.”
“How did the Burning Cove Herald cover the drowning?”
“As an accident, unsurprisingly. When was the last time the Herald covered anything in depth except charity luncheons and the thrilling activities of the Burning Cove Gardening Club?” Oliver said.
“Y’know, they say that once upon a time Edwin Paisley used to be a red-hot crime reporter.”
“Well, he’s obviously retired from that line of journalism.”
Chester picked up the copy of Whispers and quickly scanned the front-page story. He paused at one line, squinting a little.
“What’s this about a quote from the proprietor of the Burning Cove Hotel?”
“Don’t remind me,” Oliver said.
“You actually gave that reporter lady a quote?”
“Her name is Irene Glasson, and I didn’t exactly give her a quote. What I tried to do was warn her off the story. I told her that if she wasn’t careful, the police might conclude that she had something to do with Maitland’s death.”
“Looks like you didn’t do a very good job of scaring the daylights out of her.”
“No,” Oliver said. “Apparently not.”
He brooded over his impressions of Irene. He didn’t have to dredge up the memories. He had been thinking about her nonstop since the moment he met her. That had occurred last night when Tom O’Conner, the head of hotel security, summoned him to the spa chamber.
Irene was soaking wet, shivering in the cool night air. Someone had given her a towel, which she had wrapped around her shoulders. She clutched it closed in front of herself with one hand. In her other, she gripped a handbag that looked like something a professional woman would carry. Her whiskey brown hair hung in damp tendrils. Her wide-legged trousers and thin blouse were plastered to her slender frame.