Page 51 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

It was at that moment when he held another person’s life in his hands—when he saw the stark terror in the eyes of a target—that he knew what it was to be fully alive.

But first things first. He had to find the notebook before he could take his time with Irene. The old man wouldn’t stop nagging him until the damned notebook was recovered.

Chapter 20

Irene was in her room, getting ready for the long drive to Los Angeles, when she heard Mrs. Fordyce calling to her from the foot of the stairs.

“Phone call, Miss Glasson.”

Mentally she ran through the very short list of people who knew she was staying at the inn and who might have a reason to call her. She came up with two names: Velma Lancaster and Oliver Ward. Considering the fact that Velma had phoned a short time ago, the odds were good that Oliver was the caller.

Anticipation sparked inside her. She tried to squelch it. They were partners in the investigation, she reminded herself. That was the extent of their association.

She went out into the hall and hurried down the stairs. Mrs. Fordyce motioned toward the receiver lying on the front desk.

“If you continue tying up my telephone, there will be an extra charge,” she warned.

“Just put it on the bill. My paper will cover it.”

“I’ll do that,” Mrs. Fordyce said. “Now I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Got a full house this morning.”

She bustled off. Irene glanced over her shoulder into the cozy breakfast room. All of the tables were occupied by guests, and every last one of them seemed to be watching her from behind a copy of the morning newspaper.

I’m getting paranoid,she thought.

She picked up the phone and composed herself. She wanted to sound cool and professional—not like a woman who had been waiting by the phone for a man to call.

“This is Irene Glasson.”

“Miss Glasson, you don’t know me but I think we should talk.”

Not Oliver. Anticipation evaporated. Not Velma, either. The voice on the other end of the line was female, husky, and a little breathless. It was pitched at the level of a whisper.

Another kind of excitement spiked.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Someone with information you want. I’m willing to sell it to you.”

Irene tightened her grip on the phone.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” she said, doing her best to sound disinterested. “I’m a journalist. I get crank calls all the time from people who claim to have useful information to sell.”

There was a short, startled pause on the other end of the line. Evidently the would-be informant had not expected to be brushed aside.

“Trust me, you’ll want to hear what I’ve got to tell you. I know what really happened the night Gloria Maitland died.”

“Is that so?” Irene injected a tincture of mild curiosity into her voice. “Were you at the scene?”

“What? No.” Panic spiked in the whispery voice now. “I was nowhere near the Burning Cove Hotel that night.”

“Then I doubt you have anything useful to tell me. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Wait. I wasn’t at the hotel but I was at the Paradise Club.”

“You’ve got sixty seconds,” Irene said. “Talk fast. Tell me something I can believe.”

“I am the woman who was in the garden with Nick Tremayne at the Paradise Club.” The words came out in a rush.

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