The Girl Who Knew Too Much(89)

“So that’s him,” Irene whispered.

“Yes,” Oliver said.

“He looks—”

“Handsome? Polished? Sophisticated?”

“Actually, I was thinking that he looks like a movie star.”

The pair was seated in one of the booths that ringed the dance floor. The maître d’ raised his hand in a signal. A cocktail waitress arrived with a tray of drinks. She set the glasses down on the table in front of the men and gracefully departed.

The spotlight dimmed but there was no doubt that everyone in the club knew that Nick Tremayne and his friend had arrived.

“Now what?” Irene said.

“Now we wait,” Oliver said.

He fell silent.

Irene looked at him. “We should probably look as if we’re having a normal conversation.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“There’s always the weather.”

“Sure,” Oliver said. He did not take his eyes off Tremayne and Enright. “Or we could talk about what you’re going to do when this situation is finished.”

“We could,” she agreed. She felt as if she were walking across a frozen lake. One misstep and she would fall into the icy depths.

He waited a moment. When she didn’t say anything else, he took his eyes off Tremayne and Enright long enough to shoot her a wary look.

“Well?” he said.

She moved a hand in a small gesture that she hoped appeared casual, as if the answer to the question was of only mild interest.

“I suppose it all depends on what happens here in Burning Cove,” she said. “If we can prove that Tremayne killed Gloria Maitland and maybe implicate him in Peggy’s death, and if Enright gets arrested for Helen’s murder, I will have a brilliant career in journalism ahead of me. But if we can’t prove anything, I’ll have to change my name again, come up with a new identity, and find another job.”

“My hotel can always use the services of a skilled secretary,” Oliver said, his tone utterly neutral.

“You’ve got Elena.”

“Yes, and I’m not about to replace her. She’s terrific. But there are other departments that could use a person who is skilled in organizing files and typing. Also, we frequently get calls from guests who want to employ a secretary for one reason or another while they’re staying at the hotel.”

“But I would be working for you,” Irene said.

“Got a problem with that?”

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Why?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you? I learned the hard way that it’s not a good idea to sleep with the boss. And I’m sure you learned that it’s not a good idea to have an affair with one of your employees. Or have you forgotten that postcard from Hawaii?”

Oliver winced. “Right.”

She reached across the small table and patted his arm. “Thanks, anyway. I appreciate the offer. But don’t worry about me. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’ll be fine.”

Something grim and edgy sparked in his eyes.

“Let’s think about that statement for a moment,” he said. “A few months ago you were forced to drive all the way across the country and change your name because your previous boss was a professional hotel thief who managed to steal a secret notebook that got her killed. And now the man whom we think murdered her is sitting down there on the dance floor in the same booth as the leading man you suspect of killing your colleague. You call that taking care of yourself?”

Annoyed, she was about to respond, when she saw Nick Tremayne extricate himself from the booth.

“Tremayne is leaving,” she whispered.

Oliver turned to follow her gaze. “I don’t think so.”

They watched Nick cross to a nearby booth where two young, attractive women sat. He evidently invited one of them to dance. She slipped out from behind the table and eagerly followed him onto the dance floor. It was clear, even from a distance, that she was starstruck.

“She’ll be dining out on this story for months,” Irene said.

Julian Enright rose and walked purposefully up the aisle. He paused midway to speak to a waiter. A few seconds later Enright changed direction.

“He’s coming our way,” Oliver said. “This will be interesting.”

“I can’t believe this,” Irene said.

“I can. The arrogant son of a bitch can’t resist.”

Julian came to a halt in front of the table. Irene’s pulse jumped and her breath got tight. If she and Oliver were right, she was face-to-face with Helen Spencer’s killer.

For his part, Oliver seemed to go preternaturally still.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Julian said in an easy manner that implied he didn’t give a damn. He smiled at Irene. “Allow me to introduce myself. Julian Enright. You must be Irene Glasson, the reporter for Whispers. My friend Nick told me all about you. Evidently you managed to annoy his studio.”