Page 92 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“Who is Willie?”

“The head bartender here at the hotel. She used to be one of my assistants.”

“I thought most bartenders were male.”

Oliver smiled. “Most are. Willie is a little different. You’ll see when you meet her.”

“She can do what you do when it comes to reading people?”

“She’s very good at it. So is my concierge, Mr. Fontaine. Enough about our problem. It’s been a very long day and I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” Irene said, surprised by the discovery.

“I can recommend the abalone.”

“I’ve never had abalone,” she said.

“Welcome to California.”

Chapter 41

Two hours later they walked back through the front door of Casa del Mar. Oliver had a list of guests—most male but some female—who had caught his interest for one reason or another. When he needed a name to go with someone on the list, the waiter checked with the maître d’ to provide it.

Irene had been so caught up in the list-making process—demanding to know why Oliver selected certain guests out of a room full of people—that she had not had an opportunity to worry about what would happen after dinner. It was, she thought, just barely possible that the pink lady and the white wine that was served with the abalone might have had something to do with her failure to think ahead.

The problem was that she and Oliver had not discussed the sleeping arrangements. It wasn’t the sort of thing a lady brought up in conversation, not in a classy dining room.

A great awkwardness descended on her. The tour of the prop locker had turned her world upside down.

Unable to think of anything else to do, she paused at the foot of thestairs, one hand on the railing, and gave Oliver what she hoped was a cool, gracious smile.

“Thanks for a lovely evening,” she said. “Even if we did spend most of it talking about a killer.”

“Never say I don’t know how to show a lady a good time.”

His wry tone disturbed her. She took her hand off the railing and touched the side of his face.

“I’m not sure what I should say at this moment,” she whispered.

He caught her hand in his and kissed her palm. When he looked at her, she saw a shattering honesty in his normally unreadable eyes.

“I’m not sure what I should say, either,” he said. “But I know what I want to say.”

She was suddenly breathless. “What is that?”

“Please don’t go upstairs tonight. Please say you’ll come down the hall to my bedroom instead.”

“Yes,” she said. She brushed her lips across his. “Yes.”

Chapter 42

The following morning Luther arrived just as Irene and Oliver were finishing breakfast on the patio. Oliver waved him to a chair. Irene poured a cup of coffee for him.

“I’ve got news,” Luther said.

“Good or bad?” Irene asked.

“Just news,” Luther said. “I contacted some people I know back east. There has been no progress in the Helen Spencer murder case. Officially it remains an active investigation. But my informant told me that, unofficially, the police have given up. They’ve concluded that it was either a random crime committed by a deranged individual—probably a transient—or the missing private secretary.”

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