“Of course. They said you couldn’t lose.”
“After the old man got wiped out in twenty-nine, Luther took over the finances.”
“He decided that the best way to recover was to go back into the original family business?”
“Right. He operated a number of speakeasies during the dry spell. After repeal, he bought a Reno casino. He also has a gambling ship anchored in Santa Monica Bay. But the Paradise Club is his star property. It’s also his home.”
“He lives in a nightclub?”
“I live on the grounds of a hotel.”
“True, but somehow that doesn’t seem quite so . . . unusual.”
“Luther and I like to keep a close eye on our investments.”
“I see. You know, I can’t help but notice that some of these men might be carrying guns.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do your security guards carry weapons?”
“No,” Oliver said. “I operate a hotel, not a nightclub. The last thing I want on the grounds of the Burning Cove is gunplay.”
“I take your point.”
“I’m not a fan of guns,” he added. “They give people who carry them a false sense of security. Guns tend to jam when you need them most. In addition, it can be extremely difficult to hit a moving target, especially under stressful conditions.”
Obviously he felt quite strongly about the matter. She decided not to mention that she was carrying Helen’s little gun in her handbag.
Oliver stopped in front of another stout wrought iron gate and pressed the button on the intercom.
“Ward and Miss Glasson here to see Mr. Pell,” he said.
A deep masculine voice rendered somewhat scratchy by the device responded.
“Welcome, Mr. Ward,” the voice said. “I’ll be right down to let you in.”
“Thanks, Blake.”
Oliver released the button. “Blake runs Pell’s household.”
“A butler?”
“Who doubles as a bodyguard.”
“There seem to be a lot of those around here.”
“It’s a nightclub, Irene, run by a man who made his money in speakeasies and the gaming business.”
“I take your point. Again.”
“I’ve got a question for you.”
She had been starting to enjoy the adventure but that stopped her cold.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s about the blood.”
Startled, she looked at him. “The blood?”
“The little splashes of blood that you noticed under the bathtub and the sink in Peggy Hackett’s bathroom. I’m also interested in the fact that you noticed that the towel and bath mat were missing. A lot of people who stumbled onto a scene like the one you described would have been too shocked to take in such small details. Just wondered what made you pay attention to them.”
For a couple of seconds she was too stunned to respond. She could not tell him the truth—that after the discovery of Helen Spencer’s body, she had become unnaturally sensitive to the details that indicated an act of violence. Some people might say she had developed a phobia. Others would conclude that her nerves had been strained to the breaking point.
She turned her attention back to the ornate gate. A tall, burly man dressed in butler’s attire was coming toward them. Another man with a coat cut to conceal a weapon, she thought.
It suddenly occurred to her that in some surreal way, the scene—a graceful, luxurious garden and an elegant mansion protected by men who probably carried guns—somehow represented the entire town of Burning Cove. She had entered a charming, glamorous paradise that hid dark and dangerous secrets.
This is my new life, she thought. Everything looks great on the surface. I’ve made a fresh start, got a good job and my very own car, and tonight I’m going out to dinner with the most interesting man I’ve ever met and I’m wearing an amazing dress. But underneath it all I’m keeping some very scary secrets.
“Oh, the blood?” she said, striving to sound as cool as possible. “I probably noticed it because I’m a journalist. In my profession, you learn to pick up on the details.”
“Same in my field,” Oliver said.
The butler was almost at the gate. Irene shot a quick, sidelong glance at Oliver.
She had a feeling that he wasn’t buying her answer—not for a second.
“Which field would that be?” she asked. “The business of magic or the business of running a classy hotel?”
“Both. I told you, they have a lot in common.”
Chapter 15
She had lied about the blood. The question was, why?
Oliver tasted the martini that Blake had mixed, and watched their host try to charm Irene, who was sipping a pink lady and pretending to appear enthralled.