“People who had been drinking heavily all evening are not the most reliable witnesses. But, yes, it seems he was at the club for at least some portion of the night. Would you care to talk to someone who can provide more details?”
“Of course.” She raised her brows. “I take it you have a witness in mind?”
“The owner of the club, Luther Pell.”
“I would definitely like to ask him a few questions, although he has no reason to tell me the truth.”
“You don’t trust anyone, do you?”
She smiled a thin smile. “Everyone has secrets.”
“Including you.”
It was a statement, not a question. It sent another little chill through her.
“When can I talk to Luther Pell?” she said.
“He invited us to have dinner with him this evening at his club.”
“Us?”
“Like you, I have a few questions for him myself. I realize you don’t believe me, Miss Glasson, but I can promise that I want the truth as badly as you do, if not more so. I am willing to go to great lengths to protect the privacy of my guests, but I won’t protect a killer.”
“Even if it means a full-blown scandal?”
To her surprise, Oliver smiled.
“My guests claim they want privacy,” he said. “But the truth is, their careers depend on making headlines in papers like Whispers. Properly managed, there is nothing like an interesting scandal to boost the career of an aspiring actor or actress. Does wonders for my hotel business, too.”
“We’re talking about a scandal involving the murder of a woman who is said to have had an affair with a fast-rising star.”
“Which makes it a very interesting scandal.”
“That you intend to see is properly managed.”
“I had to reinvent myself after a disastrous conclusion to my previous career, Miss Glasson. Reinvention is an expensive process. I survived it once. I don’t intend to start over a third time if I can avoid it. So, yes, I’m going to try to manage the scandal.”
“Do you really think I’ll let you dictate the story?” she asked.
“Without my help, you won’t get any story at all.”
“Is that so?”
“Without my assistance, this town might as well be a fortified castle, as far as you’re concerned,” Oliver said. “They will lock the gates, pull up the drawbridge, and fill the moat with alligators.”
“And in exchange for my accepting your help, you will try to control what I write.”
“I may make a few suggestions from time to time,” Oliver admitted.
“And if you don’t like what I write, you’ll withdraw your assistance.”
“I thought I made it clear, we share the same goal. I want the killer found.”
“Why?”
“Because the Burning Cove Hotel belongs to me. I protect what is mine. No one gets away with committing murder on the premises.”
“No exceptions?” she asked.
His smile was as cold as his eyes. “One exception.”
And suddenly she knew.
“You,” she said.
“Me.”
She took a short, tight breath.
“But you didn’t kill Gloria Maitland,” she said.
“What makes you so sure I didn’t murder her?”
“You’re a magician. You would have done a better job of it.”
Chapter 12
Nick Tremayne’s smile was dazzling, a combination of masculine heat and smooth assurance. His eyes were as seductive in real life as they were on the screen. He wore an elegantly cut navy blazer and white linen trousers. His white shirt was accented with a beautifully knotted striped tie. He looked as if he had just stepped off his private yacht.
“Thank you for agreeing to let me give you my side of the story, Miss Glasson,” he said. “I appreciate your time.”
Humility, gratitude, and sincerity shimmered in the atmosphere around him. Irene had been prepared for his good looks and a whole lot of charm, but she was forced to admit that she was impressed in spite of herself. There was something almost unreal about the man. She felt as though she were doing a scene with him in front of a camera.
Oliver’s warning echoed in her head. He really is a very talented actor.
The Garden Room of the Burning Cove Hotel was a glass-walled conservatory fronted by a broad terrace overlooking the cove. Well-dressed guests drank their Darjeeling and nibbled dainty pastries amid an assortment of potted plants, hanging ferns, and colorful flowers. Sparkling fountains were scattered around the elegantly tiled room. Beyond the cove the Pacific glinted and flashed in the afternoon sun.
Irene and Nick were seated in a corner that was screened off from the rest of the tearoom by a half dozen artfully placed palms. The position allowed for private conversation but was also a public venue, just as she had requested.