The camera loved Nick. So did directors. So did women.
Claudia was starting to think that women might prove to be Nick’s downfall. The Hollywood magazines called him irresistible and he had begun to believe his own press. The result was a string of one-night flings and short-lived affairs. It had been inevitable that sooner or later a problem like Gloria Maitland would occur.
“According to the rumors flying around this hotel, the reporter who wrote that story for Whispers is still here in town,” Nick said.
He sounded thoughtful now.
“That’s right,” Claudia said, relieved that he appeared to be calming down. “Mr. Ogden gave me the details. He got them from the local chief of police. Miss Glasson is registered at the Cove Inn.”
“Talk to her,” Nick said. “Offer her an exclusive.”
Shocked, Claudia stared at him. “I don’t understand. What kind of exclusive?”
“An exclusive interview with me, you stupid woman. She’ll jump at the opportunity to have a private conversation with Nick Tremayne. Any reporter would, especially under these circumstances.”
Claudia swallowed hard. “Do you think that’s wise? Mr. Ogden instructed me to keep you away from the press.”
“Ogden is in L.A. I’m the one here in Burning Cove. It’s my career at stake. I’ll deal with the problem. Make that appointment for today.”
She wanted to argue with him. The thought of going against Ogden’s orders terrified her. But Nick Tremayne could easily get her fired if he decided that he didn’t want her around.
It dawned on her that the idea of an exclusive interview just might work. Nick could certainly turn on the charm when it suited him. There was no reason to think that he could not manipulate Irene Glasson.
“I’ll contact her right away,” she said.
She whirled around and rushed toward the front door of the villa.
When she was safely outside, she stopped and took several deep breaths of the warm, fragrant air. There had been a little fog earlier but it had been burned off by the late-September sun. Now the sky was an unreal shade of blue.
When her nerves had settled down, she made her way along a flagstone path that wound through the lush gardens of the hotel. Nick had one of the private villas, Casa de Oro, but her room was in the main building. The villas, with their secluded patios and gardens and dramatic views, were reserved for the stars and others willing to pay top dollar for luxury and privacy.
The Burning Cove Hotel crowned a gently rising hillside above the rocky cliffs. At the foot of the cliffs, splashing waves churned up white froth on a pristine beach. The main building and the villas were all constructed in a fantasy version of what they called the Spanish colonial revival style of architecture. From what she had seen, the entire town—houses, hotels, shops, even the post office and the gas stations—had been built according to the same set of design rules. White stucco walls, red tile roofs, charming shaded courtyards, and covered walkways were everywhere.
Burning Cove was a Hollywood movie set of a town, she thought. And just like a movie, you never really knew what was going on behind the scenes.
She decided that she hated the place.
Chapter 8
“We scooped every paper in town with the Maitland story,” Velma Lancaster said. The words crackled a little over the phone line. “But by now half the reporters in Los Angeles will be on the way to Burning Cove. You need to get me a follow-up headline for tomorrow’s morning edition.”
Irene winced and held the phone away from her ear. When Velma got excited she tended to talk very, very fast and she got very, very loud. She was definitely excited this morning. Gloria Maitland’s death with its connection to Nick Tremayne and a legendary hotel known to be the haunt of Hollywood royalty was the biggest story Whispers had ever printed. Velma had just spent five minutes of long-distance phone time emphasizing that it was also the most dangerous.
Forty-something and constructed along Amazonian proportions, Velma had taken control of the sleepy little paper two years earlier when her much older husband had collapsed and died at his desk. Irene had no difficulty summoning up a mental image of her new employer. An outsized woman with a personality to match, Velma colored her hair scarlet red and styled it in a short, sharply angled bob that had gone out of fashion several years earlier. She wore exotically patterned caftans, smoked cigars, and kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of her desk.
“Don’t worry,” Irene said. “I’m working on a headline for you.”
She lowered her voice because she was using the front desk phone in the lobby of the Cove Inn. Mildred Fordyce, the gray-haired proprietor, was puttering around behind the counter, doing her best to make it appear that she wasn’t paying attention, but Irene knew she was hanging on every word.