The Girl Who Knew Too Much(40)

This time she didn’t act as if her weight might pull him off balance. She trusted him not to fall on his face. Progress.

“Would you like to take a walk?” he asked, trying to make it casual, trying not to let her know that everything in him was willing her to say yes.

There was a short silence during which he was sure he actually stopped breathing.

“It’s late,” she said finally. She adjusted the light shawl. “And a bit damp.”

But she had stopped on the sidewalk, making no attempt to move toward the front porch steps.

The wrap wasn’t much protection against the cool night air off the ocean. Without a word he unfastened his dinner jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It was hugely oversized for her slender frame. It enveloped her like a cape. But she made no attempt to remove it. He savored the sight of her in the coat.

He offered her his arm. She took it. He started breathing normally again. But his blood was heating.

They walked slowly along the sidewalk, the streetlamps lighting their way for a time. He was grimly aware of the hitch in his stride. He wanted to snap the cane like a twig. But Irene paid no attention to it—probably because her thoughts were focused on someone else, namely Nick Tremayne.

“Well?” he said after a time. “What did you make of Pell?”

“I think I can understand why you consider him a trusted friend, even though he’s a few years older than you.”

That was not the answer he was expecting.

“What makes you think we’re good friends?” he asked.

Irene smiled. “You have two of his paintings on your office wall.”

“You noticed them, did you? Perhaps I like his work.”

“It’s more than that. I think you understand his work. I expect that you two have a few things in common.”

“Because we both offer glossy illusions to the public?”

“No, because you both have a surface image that conceals something deeper and more complicated,” Irene said.

“I’ve never considered myself complicated. But Luther Pell is definitely more complicated than most people realize.”

“Why is that?”

“As you said, he is a few years older than me. He went off to fight in the Great War when he was nineteen. He was fortunate. He returned with no visible wounds. But not all wounds are visible.”

“No,” she said.

They reached the entrance to the pier. Twin rows of lights illuminated the wooden-planked walkway. The far end was lost in moon-infused fog.

Irene did not object when he guided her onto the pier. The silence was interrupted by the gentle lapping of the waves beneath the wooden boards.

Irene was so close that now and again he caught a trace of her scent, a mix of some flowery cologne and her own feminine essence. He was sure his pulse was beating a little harder than usual. Instinctively he tightened his grip on her arm. He wanted to keep her there, next to him, for as long as possible.

“Sorry Pell couldn’t give you what you wanted tonight,” he said at last.

She sighed. “I didn’t think it would be easy to prove that Tremayne is a killer.”

“No. It won’t be easy. More likely impossible.”

“You think I’m wasting my time, don’t you?”

“What I think,” he said slowly, “is that you are taking some very big risks.”

She slanted him a sidelong look. “Risks you’re willing to take, as well. What will you do if we find out for certain that Nick Tremayne murdered three women but we can’t prove it?”

“I’ll worry about that problem if it becomes a problem.”

She stopped short. “What does that mean?”

He was forced to stop, too. He released her, hooked the handle of the cane over the railing, and leaned against the wooden barrier.

“It means that this is Burning Cove, not L.A.,” he said. “The rules are a little different here.”

“Mr. Ward—”

“Oliver.”

“Oliver. I appreciate that you have an interest in finding out what happened in your spa and I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t want to be responsible for you doing something that could get you arrested.”

He smiled a little at that. “Trust me, if I get arrested, it will be my own fault.”

She folded her arms under the protective cloak of his coat and looked at him. In the weak glow of the nearby lamp, he could see the shadows in her eyes.

“I assume your next step is to try to interview Daisy Jennings?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Luther was right, you know. She won’t talk. By now the studio people will have gotten to her.”

Irene angled her head a little and studied his face in the dim light. He realized that she was trying to read him.