“Someone is here to see you, Miss Glasson.”
Oliver Ward. It had to be him. Irene couldn’t think of anyone else in Burning Cove who might want to speak with her. A little rush of anticipation swept through her. She told herself it was because a visit from Ward boded well for her story. Perhaps he had decided to give her a real quote, after all.
But a small, secret voice whispered that it wasn’t just the prospect of getting a useful quote that made her hurry to the door. The truth was that she was very, very curious to see Oliver Ward again. It would be interesting to find out whether her initial impressions of him held up in the light of day or if she had allowed her imagination to mislead her last night.
She opened the door and leaned out into the upstairs hall. “I’ll be right down, Mrs. Fordyce.”
She closed the door again and hurried back across the room to check her image in the mirror. After returning to the inn last night, she had made the phone call to Velma and then gone upstairs. She had been energized and feeling jumpy, but she took the time to pin several big curls into her damp hair before collapsing onto the bed. Now she was very glad she had done so. At least she no longer looked like she’d been dunked in a pool. She certainly wouldn’t be mistaken for Ginger Rogers or Katharine Hepburn, but she looked presentable with her hair brushed back off her face and tucked behind her ears. The soft, easy waves fell to her shoulders.
She put on some lipstick, took a deep breath, and went out into the hall.
It wasn’t Oliver Ward who was waiting in the lobby.
A tall, thin woman in her early twenties looked up as Irene came down the stairs. The newcomer wore a severely cut brown suit with a narrow, calf-length skirt and a tight jacket that did little to enhance her figure. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and pinned in a tightly rolled set of curls that started at one ear and looped down around the back of her neck to end at the other ear. It was a very businesslike hairstyle. She clutched a notebook as though it were a life preserver.
Irene’s first thought was that the woman would have been quite pretty if she didn’t look so anxious.
“Miss Irene Glasson?” the woman asked.
The voice fit with the rest of the image—thin and nervous.
“I’m Irene Glasson.” Irene tried to sound cool and professional. She was a journalist now. The new role was not so very different from her previous career as a private secretary. Success in both fields, she had discovered, depended on organizational skills and the ability to think on one’s feet. “What can I do for you, Miss—?”
The woman looked almost pathetically relieved.
“Picton, Claudia Picton. I’m Mr. Tremayne’s personal assistant. I wonder if I might have a word with you? It’s very important.”
“What is this about?” Irene asked. But she was sure she knew the answer. Excitement splashed through her.
Claudia cast a quick, uneasy look at Mildred and then lowered her voice. “I’m afraid it’s a private matter.”
“Of course,” Irene said. “My room is too small. There’s only one chair. Let’s go out on the patio. We can talk there.”
Ignoring Mildred’s disappointed expression, she went quickly toward the glass-paned doors that opened onto a small garden. Claudia followed, practically trotting.
Irene motioned toward two green wrought iron chairs shaded by an awning. Claudia hesitated and then perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Irene sat down across from her.
“How did you find me, Miss Picton?”
Claudia flinched and then reddened. She made a visible effort to square her already rigid shoulders.
“Someone at the studio gave me your name,” she said.
Irene nodded. “Of course. That explains it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re here because you were assigned to handle Nick Tremayne’s little public relations problem. Some fixer at the studio made a phone call to the local police and offered a nice gratuity in exchange for the address of the reporter who broke the story of Gloria Maitland’s death. Obviously the helpful local policeman obliged.”
Claudia’s jaw tensed. “I did get a call from someone who represents the studio. But I’m here because Mr. Tremayne, himself, asked me to speak with you.”
“Did he? That’s very interesting. What is he going to offer me in exchange for dropping the story?”
“You don’t understand. He wants to give you an exclusive one-on-one interview.”
“That’s very generous of him. Why would he do that?”
“Mr. Tremayne feels there has been a grave misunderstanding concerning his prior association with Miss Maitland. He would like to clarify the nature of his relationship with her.”