Page 122 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“I’ve got to take care of some business in the office,” Oliver said. “Security is keeping a close eye on Tremayne around the clock. In addition, I’ll make sure one of the guards is stationed outside of this villa. Promise me you won’t leave this place alone.”

“I promise,” she said.

She waited until he left, and then she went back inside the villa to collect her notes. She took them outside onto the patio, determined to start at the very beginning.

She would begin the way Peggy Hackett had taught her—by setting down every hard fact she had in her possession, regardless of how ephemeral it seemed. She would follow every loose end. She would ask the question that she had been asking from the very beginning—why the four women had died.

They had each known something, she thought, or discovered something that threatened Nick Tremayne. It was the only explanation that made any sense.

An hour later she sat back and looked at her notes, searching for some pattern that she had not noticed previously. Nothing. The only thing that stood out was the fact that all of the victims except the first one had lived in Los Angeles.

She returned to the short, cryptic note that she had found when she cleaned out Peggy’s desk. It included the name Betty Scott, the woman found dead in a bathtub in Seattle.

And there was a phone number.

Peggy’s advice whispered through her.When you’re stuck, go back over every detail. Find one more detail—because there is always one more detail.

She rose, went into the living room, and picked up the phone.

“Operator, I’d like to call a Seattle newspaper... No, I don’t care which one... Yes, thePost-Intelligencersounds fine.”

The phone was answered by a receptionist who sounded rushed. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’m a reporter in Burning Cove, California. I’d like to speak with one of your crime reporters.”

“Hold one moment. I’ll connect you.”

A short time later Irene found herself talking to a bored-sounding individual who identified himself as George.

“You want me to dig out a year-old obituary notice? Why should I do you any favors?”

“Because I’m working on an investigation that involves Nick Tremayne.”

“The actor?” The boredom was replaced by a flicker of interest. “What have you got?”

“I’m chasing leads at this point. But if you give me a hand, I promise to call you as soon as I’ve got a story you can run with.”

“Nick Tremayne, huh. All right. Give me time to go down to the morgue and pull some clips.” He paused. “I’ll have to reverse the charges.”

“That’s fine.”

George called back fifteen minutes later.

“I found the Scott obit but there’s not much info here,” he said. “I don’t see how this is going to help. Scott slipped and fell in her bathtub. Worked at a café. Survived by an aunt who lives here in Seattle.”

There is always one more detail.

“I need the name of the aunt.”

“Dorothy Hodges. Look, what have you got on Tremayne?”

“I have to move quickly here. I give you my word I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve got all the facts.”

Irene hung up and made the next call.

“Operator, please connect me with Dorothy Hodges in Seattle, Washington. No, I don’t have the number or the address. Yes, I’ll hold.”

It turned out that there were three D. Hodgeses in the Seattle telephone directory. The operator connected Irene to the right one on the second attempt. A middle-aged woman answered.

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