She took the whiskey and swallowed a healthy dose of the spirits. The stuff burned all the way down but it had a fortifying effect.
She immediately regretted the action because Oliver looked quietly pleased. Too late now, she decided. She took another sip.
Oliver went back across the room and picked up the other glass. He made his way to the big, heavily padded chair across from her and lowered himself into it. He stretched out his bad leg with some care.
“Tell me again how you managed to get access to my hotel,” he said.
“You heard me explain to Detective Brandon that Gloria Maitland asked me to meet her in the spa. She left my name at the front desk. I was her guest for the evening.”
“The guest of a woman who is now dead.”
“Are you implying I’m responsible? Detective Brandon certainly didn’t seem to think so.”
But she was clutching at straws now. Brandon had been summoned by the head of hotel security. He had arrived with an officer from the Burning Cove Police Department. It was obvious that the detective had been roused from his bed, but he was professional and polite.
Unfortunately, it had also been evident from the moment he arrived that he and Oliver Ward were well acquainted. Irene had no doubt but that Brandon would defer to Ward’s desire to try to contain the scandal. Burning Cove might be a small town, but it appeared to operate under L.A. rules—money and power controlled everything, including the local police.
“I checked with the front desk,” Oliver said. “While it’s true that Miss Maitland invited you here this evening, she failed to mention that you were a member of the press. Reporters are never allowed on the property.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Miss Maitland.”
“Who is now deceased. We keep coming back to that unpleasant fact, don’t we?”
“It’s not my fault that Gloria Maitland didn’t obey your rules,” Irene said. “And while we’re on the subject of security, it would appear that the Burning Cove Hotel has a few problems in that regard. A woman was murdered in your fancy spa tonight. That doesn’t make your security people look good, does it?”
“No,” Oliver conceded. “But the fact that you were the one who found the body doesn’t make you look good.” He paused a beat. “Some would say that makes you the primary suspect.”
Don’t panic, she thought. There will be plenty of time to do that later.
“I told Detective Brandon the truth,” she said, managing to keep her voice steady. “I’m a journalist. I had an appointment with Miss Maitland. She chose the time and the location.”
“You work for a Hollywood gossip sheet. I’m not sure that position entitles you to call yourself a journalist.”
“You are hardly in a position to lecture me on the subject of sensational headlines. You’re an ex-magician who built a name for himself by making exactly those kinds of headlines with your very daring performances. I’m sure that when you were touring you wanted all the newspaper coverage you could get.”
“I’m in a different profession these days.”
“We both know that your patrons don’t just come to the Burning Cove Hotel because they crave privacy. The actors and actresses book rooms here because they want to be seen checking in to such an exclusive establishment. The rich come because they want to rub shoulders with the famous and the infamous. Admit it, Mr. Ward, people are attracted to this hotel precisely because they want their names mentioned in the same breath as Hollywood royalty and wealthy tycoons and notorious gangsters. Your guests will do just about anything to be the subject of the kind of journalism that appears in Whispers.”
To her chagrin, Oliver inclined his head once in acknowledgment of the counterattack.
“That’s all true,” he said. “However, I’m sure you understand that the policy against allowing journalists onto the grounds is part of the illusion. Obviously, if I did let them wander around the hotel, it would no longer appear exclusive.”
“It’s all about appearances, then?”
“It’s all about maintaining the illusion, Miss Glasson.”
“What do you want from me, Mr. Ward?”
He turned the whiskey glass absently between his fingers.
“Tonight a woman died in my hotel under mysterious circumstances,” he said. “You claim that you had an appointment with her in the spa. That appointment was at a rather late hour.”
“A quarter past midnight. And it didn’t strike me as a strange time at all. It made perfect sense. Your hotel was in full swing at that hour. The lounge was crowded. People were dancing, drinking heavily, and no doubt meeting other people’s spouses and lovers in various rooms and pool cabanas. Gloria Maitland had every reason to think that no one would notice her slipping off to the spa for an interview with a journalist.”