Page 104 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“Teddy?”

“Sorry,” Oliver said. “He prefers his stage name. Mr. Fontaine. Occasionally I forget. To me he’ll always be Teddy, the guy who somehow got the whole show, crew, props, and equipment packed up and on the right train heading for the next town. The man’s brilliant when it comes to logistics.”

“Claudia was right where Mr. Fontaine said she would be at three fifteen—the tearoom. I was hoping to rattle her a bit but she didn’t tell me much. She did mention that Nick Tremayne was playing golf with a new acquaintance, someone he met at the hotel.”

“Who?”

“A Mr. Enright.”

Oliver sat down, looking thoughtful. “That is very interesting.”

“Why?” she asked, taking a seat.

“There is a Julian Enright of New York on my list.”

“A single man? Traveling alone?”

“Yes. A gentleman with expensive tastes and a sense of style—the sort of style that, I’m told, can only be acquired by someone who descends from several generations of moldy money. Mr. Fontaine was very impressed.”

“You didn’t point out this Julian Enright in the hotel restaurant last night.”

“He wasn’t there.” Oliver held up a list with four names on it. “Enright was one of the few who chose to dine in town.”

“‘A gentleman with expensive tastes and a sense of style,’” Irene repeated softly. “Doesn’t sound like a killer, does he?”

“Not the Hollywood movie version, perhaps. But do you think it’s possible that such a man might have succeeded in deceiving Helen Spencer?”

“Maybe. Why would a killer on a mission to recover the notebook take up with a hot Hollywood talent?”

“It’s quite possible that Enright is aware of your recent reporting.”

“So?”

“So, since you have helpfully laid the groundwork for pointing the finger of blame at Nick Tremayne in one recent death, why not use Tremayne as cover?”

“I don’t understand.”

“If something were to happen to you, Irene, who do you think would come under immediate suspicion?”

She caught her breath at the sheer audacity of the idea.

“Nick Tremayne,” she said. “Everyone knows he’s furious with me because of that piece I wrote forWhispers.”

“He might have a rock-solid alibi—enough to keep him from going to jail—but that wouldn’t matter in the court of public opinion. I wouldn’t be surprised if the murder of a certain reporter here in Burning Cove where Tremayne just happens to be vacationing might be toomuch for even a powerful studio to handle—especially if the murder was staged so that it was clear it was no accident.”

A vision of Helen Spencer’s bloody corpse flashed into Irene’s mind. Her fingers trembled.

“Perception is everything,” she said. “There would be a huge scandal, lots of speculation and gossip. And while all that was going on, the real killer would quietly vanish from the scene. It’s a stunning idea.”

“Damned brilliant piece of misdirection when you think about it.”

“It certainly worked in Helen’s murder. The police assumed from the outset that they were looking for an insane killer.”

“A criminally insane private secretary, to be specific,” Oliver said.

“No need to remind me. Such a scheme also fits with your sense of the killer’s arrogance.”

“Yes, but if we’re right, that arrogance is the plan’s fatal flaw.”