Aware that Irene was both the only eyewitness and the principal suspect, Oliver had whisked her into his private villa before any of the guests could see her. At that point, Jean Firebrace, the head of housekeeping, had taken charge of her for a while. The two women disappeared upstairs to the guest bedroom, a room that, until that moment, had never housed a guest.
The next time Oliver saw Irene she was bundled up in a thick white robe and ensconced in one of the two big chairs in front of the fireplace.
What had surprised him the most was that he found it difficult to read her. He was usually very good when it came to figuring out what made someone tick. He could pick out a stranger in an audience and come up with an accurate character analysis in a few short minutes. All it took were some key questions and a quick study of the individual’s clothes, jewelry, and voice. It was amazing how much you could tell about someone from just a pair of shoes.
One thing had been clear from the start. He was damned sure that Irene didn’t trust him. But for some reason, that just made her all the more interesting. There were secrets hidden in her big eyes and a haunted quality that told him she had learned some things the hard way.
Well, that gives us something in common, lady.
She would never have survived a casting call in Hollywood because, with the exception of her fine eyes, everything else about her was too subtle for the camera. She was attractive but not spectacularly so. She had an edge, though, an intensity that aroused his curiosity. He was very sure that, like with any good illusion, there was a lot hidden under the surface of Irene Glasson.
By the time he had limped back to the villa after seeing her off in her nondescript Ford sedan, he concluded that he was more than merely curious. He was downright fascinated.
He probably ought to be worried by his reaction to her, he thought.
“So where is this famous quote from management?” Chester asked, scanning the article.
“It’s somewhere near the end of the piece, and I told you, it’s not a quote.”
“Ah, here we go,” Chester said. “The management of the Burning Cove Hotel refused to respond to this reporter’s request for clarification.”
“In other words, I wouldn’t confirm that Nick Tremayne was staying in the hotel or that he was rumored to have had an affair with the dead woman.”
“Which is as good as telling her straight out that he was here and that he probably did have an affair with Maitland.”
“Miss Glasson already knew that much.”
Chester did not look up from the article. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. It’s just the usual Hollywood gossip.”
“Except for the reporter’s speculation about the possibility of murder.”
“Except for that part. Where’s the stuff about how the reporter had to jump into the pool to escape the killer?”
“She left out that bit of drama.”
Chester frowned. “Wonder why?”
“Probably because she wants to keep the attention on the death of Gloria Maitland. She’s convinced it was murder.”
“Why is she so determined to prove it? Just to get the story?”
“I don’t think so.” He had been asking himself the same question since Irene Glasson had landed, soaking wet, in his otherwise well-organized, well-controlled world. “Got a feeling there’s more to it than that. She says she needs the story in order to keep her job, but I have a hunch that she’s got another reason. Something personal.”
“Something personal involving murder? That strikes me as peculiar.”
“Strikes me the same way.”
“Well, you’re usually damned good at reading people.”
“I’ve been known to make mistakes,” Oliver reminded him grimly.
“True, but I think that in this case the odds are excellent that you’re right.” Chester read some more of the article. “Says here that the hotel management is expected to go to great lengths to suppress any whisper of murder in order to avoid a scandal.”
“Strangely enough, I don’t think she believed me when I told her that I intend to find out exactly what happened to Maitland.”
Chester tossed the paper aside. “Miss Glasson doesn’t know you very well.”
“No,” Oliver said, “she doesn’t.”
“As if you’d let someone get away with murder right here on the grounds of your own hotel.”
“Damn right. The Burning Cove doesn’t set a very high bar when it comes to the behavior expected of its guests, but management does frown on murder.”
“Got to have some standards,” Chester said.
“Right. Besides, murder is bad for business.”