Page 35 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“A change from having to rely on a cane,” she said before she stopped to think.

He gave her a quick, appraising glance before returning his attention to his driving. She got the feeling that she had not exactly surprised him; rather, she had confirmed some impression that he had already formed.

“Yes,” he said.

The one-word answer was devoid of all emotion, but it told her just how much he hated the cane and what it represented.

“Understandable,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I don’t indulge my taste for speed when there is a passenger in the car.”

“I don’t have a problem with speed,” she said, “so long as I trust the driver.”

“Given that I am permanently hobbled with a cane due to a serious failure of judgment that nearly got me killed, I won’t ask the obvious question.”

“You won’t ask me if I trust you?”

“No. Too soon for that.”

“Nothing personal,” she said, “but I’ve experienced some rather serious failures of judgment, myself. I’ve concluded it’s probably best not to trust anyone.”

“Safer that way.”

“Yes.”

“So much for trust. Aren’t you going to ask me the question that everyone else wants to ask?”

“You mean, what really went wrong at your final performance?”

“Right,” he said. His hands flexed a little on the steering wheel. “That question.”

“No,” she said.

“Why not? You’re a reporter. Aren’t you curious?”

“You have always maintained that it was an accident and that the rumors of attempted murder were baseless. There’s no reason to think you would change your story tonight, not for a reporter from a scandal sheet. Besides, I’m in Burning Cove to cover another story, remember?”

“I remember. About this other story you’re chasing.”

“Yes?”

“This isn’t just another movie-star-scandal piece, is it? I can tell this is personal for you.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s personal.”

“Do I get an explanation?”

She had known that sooner or later he would ask for more information. That afternoon as she had used pins to set the deep waves in her hair, she pondered just how much to tell him.

“Ten days ago anotherWhispersreporter died,” she said at last. “Her name was Peggy Hackett.”

“Hackett? The gossip columnist who became a raging alcoholic and managed to get herself fired from her own column?”

“My boss hired her about six months ago. Peggy was working on astory involving Nick Tremayne when she died. According to the authorities, she slipped and fell in the bathtub. She drowned.”

She waited for Oliver to make the connection. He did. Immediately.

“Like Gloria Maitland,” he said quietly.

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