He downed a healthy dose of whiskey to take his mind off the pain and his own miserable performance.
He was sitting in one of the big leather chairs in front of the fireplace, his damned leg propped on a hassock. Shortly after Irene had brought him home, he ordered a large quantity of ice from room service. He now had three ice bags draped over his bad leg.
Irene swallowed some of her own whiskey and resumed her pacing.
“Nick Tremayne used poor Daisy Jennings to lure us to that warehouse tonight and then he murdered her,” she said.
“I agree that’s how it looks,” Oliver said. He drank some more whiskey. “But it will probably be impossible to prove unless Springer wakes up and starts talking.”
Irene shook her head. “I never meant to drag you into this situation.”
“We’ve already had that conversation. I’d just as soon not reopen it, if you don’t mind.”
She stopped pacing and met his eyes. Whatever she saw there must have convinced her he meant every word.
“All right,” she said, uncharacteristically meek. She waved one hand in a vague gesture. “The problem now is, I don’t know what to do next.”
“Let’s see what Detective Brandon does. The cops can’t brush off Springer and his pal, not now that there’s another dead woman.”
“Another drowning victim who just happens to be one of Nick Tremayne’s lovers,” Irene said.
Oliver paused the whiskey glass halfway to his mouth and watched her very deliberately, willing her to understand the significance of what had happened.
“Daisy Jennings is dead, but she was not the only target tonight,” he said.
“I realize that.” Irene put her glass down. “You and I were also targets.”
“Not me,” he said. “You. No one knew I was along for the ride. Not until it was all over.”
She watched him, stricken. “I’m so—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t say it. What I’m getting at is that we now know for certain that someone is prepared to do whatever it takes to stop you. Springer said he and his pal were hired to scare you. That may be true. They may even believe it was the objective. But I think that whoever hired that pair to set fire to the warehouse would have been quite satisfied if you had died in the blaze.”
Irene took a deep breath and went to stand at the window, looking out at the patio and the moonlit ocean.
“My death in that warehouse would have made things simpler for him,” she said.
“Yes. In addition, it would have provided a neat explanation for Jennings’s death.”
“The cops would have assumed that I killed her and then died when I accidentally knocked over a lantern and set fire to the warehouse. But what’s my motive? Why would I murder Daisy Jennings?”
“I agree that the story is weak when it comes to motive, but I doubt if anyone would worry about that too much. The police would be happy to have it all tied up in a neat package.”
Irene turned around. “Tonight was different because Tremayne used fire against me. Daisy and Gloria Maitland and the others were all made to look like cases of accidental drowning.”
“There could have been any number of reasons for the change in his pattern. Magicians rework the same illusions in a variety of ways to keep the act convincing. The killer probably decided that two drowning victims at the same scene tonight would have been a little hard for the cops to ignore. Besides, fire has a number of advantages.”
“Advantages?”
“It’s a classic and highly effective way of destroying evidence.”
Irene pondered that. “I see what you mean.”
“The real question is, where did the killer find Springer and Dallas?”
“Springer implied that he and his pal were hired muscle,” Irene said.
“Tremayne is from out of town. He wouldn’t know how to find local muscle.”
“So he brought Springer and Dallas in from L.A.”
“Maybe,” Oliver said. “Or maybe the studio provided the pair to clean up the mess Tremayne made here in Burning Cove. There’s no point speculating tonight. We need more information. We do know one thing, however.”
Irene frowned. “What?”
“It’s obvious now that you’re a target. You should not be alone, not until we find out who tried to kill you tonight.”
She gave him a sharp, unreadable look and then turned her back to him. Her shoulders were very straight.
“I can’t afford to hire a bodyguard, if that’s what you’re about to suggest,” she said. “And I’m sure my editor won’t pay for one—not for long, at least. How does one even go about hiring a bodyguard, anyway?”