Page 7 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

The knowledge that she was swimming over the body of the dead woman was unnerving, but not nearly as unnerving as the realization that she was probably being chased by a killer.

She reached the far side and dragged herself up out of the water. It took every ounce of strength she possessed, but she discovered that fear was a terrific motivator. She managed to scramble to her feet.

Breathless, she paused to look back. She saw no one in the shadows, but she heard rapid footsteps again. This time they were headed away from the pool. A short time later a door opened and closed on the far side of the spa chamber.

Irene gripped the handle of her handbag and hurried to the glass doors that fronted the spa. She fled into the moonlit gardens.

Once again she was running from the scene of a murder, running from a killer.

Just when she had begun to think that her new life in California might have a Hollywood ending.

Chapter 5

“Now that Detective Brandon and the officer have taken their leave, Miss Glasson, I think you and I should have a private conversation,” Oliver Ward said.

Irene considered her options. She had an uneasy feeling that her first choice—concocting an excuse to decline the chat—was not going to work. In her short time in California she had learned to expect the unexpected, and Oliver Ward definitely qualified as a disturbing example of the unexpected.

She glanced across the living room, gauging the distance between the big leather armchair in which she sat and the front door. She just might make it. She had one very big advantage—Ward had a bad leg. His gait was stiff and halting. He was forced to rely on a cane.

The cause of the injury was no secret. It was, in fact, something of a show business legend. Oliver Ward was once a world-famous magician who had performed amazing illusions at some of the biggest theaters in the United States. He had toured Europe. But two years ago things had gone terribly wrong. Ward was nearly killed in what proved to be hisfinal performance. The disaster made headlines across the country.Blood on the Stage.Famous Magician Badly Injured in Front of Audience,May Not Survive.

What, precisely, had gone wrong had been a matter of conjecture in the press for months. All anyone knew for certain was that there had been real ammunition in the gun that was used in the illusion. Ward had steadfastly refused to give any interviews on the subject. After he was released from the hospital, he had seemingly vanished from the scene.

Tonight Irene discovered that he had gone into the hotel business.

At the moment, he was on the far side of the room, standing at an elegant black-lacquer liquor cabinet where he was in the process of pouring two whiskies. He appeared to be in excellent health but, given his serious limp, she was almost certain she could get to the door before he could.

It was, however, highly unlikely that she could escape the grounds without being stopped. Ward employed an impressive array of well-dressed security guards. Their evening uniforms consisted of black-and-white formal attire, but the good clothes did not disguise their muscular builds. Not that any of them had been around earlier in the spa when she could have used a little help.

Just like cops, she thought,never around when you needed one.

She abandoned the idea of making a dash for the door.

“It’s been a very trying night,” she said instead, striving to appear pathetic. She certainly looked the part, swathed in a thick spa robe with her hair bound up in a turban made from a hotel towel. “I’m exhausted. If you don’t mind, I would like to go back to the Cove Inn. I’ve got a room there. Perhaps we could talk in the morning?”

With a little luck she would be in her car, heading back to Los Angeles, before Ward realized she had left town.

“I’d prefer to have the conversation now,” he said.

She abandoned the pathetic approach and went for icy outrage.

“Detective Brandon declined to arrest me,” she said. “Most likelybecause I’m innocent. Are you planning to keep me here against my will? Because, if so, I would like to remind you that I am a member of the press. I’m sure you don’t want this scandal to get any bigger than it is already.”

All right, claiming to be a member of the press was pushing things a bit—technically she was a mere assistant atWhispers, a Hollywood gossip paper. But she was in Burning Cove with her editor’s approval, and she was on the trail of what she was sure would be a headline-making story—murder and scandal that involved a leading man who was considered by many to be the next Clark Gable.

A short time ago, Ward had summoned his manager and the head concierge. They had been instructed to do everything in their power to stanch rumors and speculation. Their primary job was to keep the press at bay. The fact that it was a reporter, or anaspiringreporter, who had found the body in the spa was going to be a very big problem for Oliver Ward.

She could expect threats, she thought, but Ward had to know it was unlikely that any force on earth could squelch the story of murder in his hotel spa. Furthermore, she doubted that Ward would want to add fuel to the fire by ordering his people to forcibly detain her—not in front of witnesses, at least.

Unfortunately, at the moment there were no witnesses. She was alone with Oliver Ward in the living room of his private villa, Casa del Mar.

“We both know that there is no avoiding the headlines,” Oliver said. He put the stopper back into the cut glass decanter. “The best I can do at this point is try to contain and control the story.”

“At least you are honest about your intentions. How do you intend to contain and control the scandal?”

He gave her a cool, assessing smile. “I’m working on that problem. Perhaps you can help me.”

“Why?”

---