The Girl Who Knew Too Much(23)

Irene waited a moment before she opened her handbag and took out her notebook. She unclipped the pencil and started to jot down her impressions of Claudia Picton. Nervous. Anxious. Scared?

I know how you feel, Claudia Picton. I’ve been nervous, anxious, and scared for the past four months.

She had driven some three thousand miles, traded her prize Packard for a far more anonymous car, changed her name, changed her career, and invented a new life. But she was still looking over her shoulder, still listening for footsteps in the night, still jumping at shadows.

Finding another body last night certainly hadn’t helped soothe her nerves. Three women whose lives had touched hers were dead within four months: Helen Spencer, Peggy Hackett, and Gloria Maitland.

Logic and common sense told her that the deaths of Peggy Hackett and Gloria Maitland could not possibly be connected to the grisly murder of Helen Spencer. But logic and common sense did little to allay the fear that churned deep inside her. It was fear of a link between the three dead women that had caused her to become obsessed with finding out the truth about Peggy Hackett’s death.

So be it, she thought. She had run as far as she could, all the way to the opposite edge of the country. There was nowhere else to run. She had to discover the truth for the sake of her own sanity.

A large shadow fell across the open page of her notebook.

“I doubt that she’ll last very long,” Oliver said.

Irene was so startled she nearly levitated out of her chair. She took a sharp breath and looked up. Oliver was standing slightly behind her, his cane gripped tightly in one hand.

She should have heard him approach, she thought. She had been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn’t heard the tapping of his cane or the hitch in his stride.

She glanced down and saw that there was a thick rubber cap on the end of the cane. That no doubt explained why she hadn’t heard it thumping on the paving stones of the patio. Oliver had moved very quietly for a man with a bad leg. The word stealthy came to mind.

He was dressed in a pair of excellently tailored trousers, a crisply pressed shirt, and a lightweight linen jacket cut in the drape style. The fashion had become very popular because the design emphasized the width of a man’s upper chest and shoulders. But Oliver didn’t need the illusion created by a good tailor, she thought. His shoulders would have looked good with or without the jacket.

It occurred to her that the style had something else going for it. The slightly angled drape of the fabric above the waistline was far less restrictive than the older style, which fit the body quite snugly. The ease of movement allowed by the new fashion probably appealed to a man who needed to use a cane.

“I didn’t hear you,” she said.

She knew the comment sounded like a thinly veiled accusation.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Do you mind if I join you?”

“No,” she said.

She slipped the pencil into her notebook and closed the cover.

He eased into the chair that Claudia had just vacated. Irene watched the small action carefully, trying to determine if he really did need the cane or if he used it as a prop. As if an otherwise healthy specimen of manhood would deliberately go about with a fake limp, she thought. I’m suspicious of everyone these days.

“Was that shorthand you were using to record your notes?” Oliver asked.

She tensed. “Every reporter develops his or her own version of shorthand.”

“I know, but I’ve seen notes made by other journalists. They aren’t nearly so neat.” Oliver smiled faintly. “Not so impossible to decipher, either. I’m guessing that only another trained stenographer could read your notes.”

He was fishing for information about her.

“That’s the thing about a private code, isn’t it?” she said. “No one else can read it. What did you mean when you said that Claudia Picton wouldn’t last very long?”

“I assume you’ve met other studio publicists and assistants?”

“Sure. Usually on the phone, though.”

“Still, you must know what they’re like.”

“They’re your best friends when they want coverage for their stars and your worst enemies if you don’t print the kind of coverage they want.”

Oliver’s mouth curved faintly in wry amusement. “Exactly. Reporters aren’t the only ones who have to deal with publicists and assistants. The hotel has to handle them all the time.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ve had a lot of experience with the species.”

“The appeal of the Burning Cove Hotel is based in part on the fact that it has become a fashionable retreat for famous film stars. Ambitious publicists and assistants want their actors and actresses to be seen checking in, but they don’t want photographers to catch the stars in compromising positions. The result is that my security staff exists primarily to make sure reporters and photographers don’t get on the grounds without my permission.”