The Girl Who Knew Too Much(51)

“Did she happen to mention that there’s a dock and a boathouse attached?”

That stopped her for a few seconds. “A dock and a boathouse?”

“That old warehouse sits on the edge of a small, hidden cove. That’s why the bootleggers used it. They could bring in boatloads of illegal liquor without drawing the attention of the authorities.” Oliver paused for emphasis. “They also used it to get rid of bodies.”

“Bodies?”

“The business was very competitive.”

“I see.”

“All in all, sounds like the ideal location for another drowning accident,” Oliver said.

She caught her breath. “Yes, it does. All right, you’ve made your point. Do you really think Daisy intends to try to murder me?”

“I think it’s more likely that our killer is using Daisy to lure you to the scene. I warned you this was probably a setup.”

She drummed the fingers of her left hand on the wheel. “But what if Daisy is telling the truth?”

“In that case, you’re right. We may come away from the meeting with some hard information that we can use to figure out who murdered Gloria Maitland.”

There was a new note in his voice, she thought, one that she had not heard before. She struggled to come up with a description and finally settled on anticipation. He sounded like a man who was looking forward to a little excitement.

“What if you’re right, after all?” she said. “What if this meeting with Daisy is a setup?”

“We pull a rabbit out of the hat.”





Chapter 24




Daisy Jennings struck another match to light another cigarette—the last one in the pack. She had been chain-smoking ever since she made the first phone call to the reporter earlier in the day. Her throat was raw and her nerves were frayed. Her pulse was beating much too fast. The match shook a little in her fingers.

It was the damned warehouse that was making her jumpy. No wonder the local kids claimed that it was haunted by the ghosts of the gangsters’ victims. She had brought a kerosene lantern with her but it was burning low. She should have taken the time to refill it before driving out to the warehouse, she thought. Too late now. She could only hope that the reporter would be on time.

She got the cigarette lit and hastily blew out the match. She dropped it into the empty tin can she had found in a corner. She was being very careful with the matches and the butts. The warehouse was a firetrap.

The wide door that opened onto the loading dock at the back of the structure hung on its hinges. She could hear the water lapping and the creak of rotting wood. It sounded like some creepy monster of the deep feasting on the bodies that had been dumped into the cove. Maybe she had seen a few too many horror movies.

Occasionally she heard ominous rustlings in the shadows. Each time she hoisted the lantern to take a closer look, she caught sight of a furry body with a hairless, snakelike tail. The bootleggers had pulled up stakes and moved on to other business ventures, but the rats had set up shop amid the heaps of moldy straw, wooden crates, and leftover packing materials that littered the place.

She tossed the empty pack aside and inhaled deeply. The action triggered another coughing fit. So much for the brand’s promise that its product had a soothing effect on the throat. It just went to show that you couldn’t trust the claims made in the magazine ads. Couldn’t trust the movie stars or the doctors who made those claims for the cigarette companies, either.

But, then, a smart woman didn’t trust anyone, she thought, least of all a charming, good-looking movie star. Nick Tremayne was a dream man and he had promised to fulfill her dreams. He had said he would get her a screen test at his studio. She knew now that he had lied, just like all the others before him.

But at least Tremayne had come through with some cash—a lot of it. None of the others had been so generous. The first half was paid up front. After tonight she would collect the second half. That would give her enough money to buy the clothes she would need to start over in L.A.

No more Hollywood dreams. Her looks would start to fade soon. It was time to find a rich older man, preferably one who was going senile, a guy who could give her the financial security she would need to get through the years ahead.

The extra twenty bucks from Irene Glasson hardly mattered, Daisy thought. She had been told to make the demand for money so the scene looked authentic. A reporter expected to pay for a tip.

She stopped pacing and sat down on an empty crate to finish the cigarette.

Somewhere in the darkness the thick floorboards groaned again. She shuddered and glanced over her shoulder. There was nothing to see except darkness and shadows.