Page 37 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

“Don’t remind me.”

Irene shot him a quick, searching glance. He didn’t look annoyed, she concluded. More like resigned.

“Just doing my job,” she said.

“Forget it. All right, so you think the killer took Hackett’s notebook.”

“Yes, I do. I never found her notebook but I did find something interesting when I cleaned out her desk at the office.”

“What?”

“A piece of paper with the name Betty Scott written on it in Peggy’s handwriting. It looked like she had jotted down some quick notes while on the phone. In addition to the name, there was a phone number.”

“You called the number?” Oliver asked.

“Sure.”

“And?”

“Turned out to be a Seattle number. A woman answered. Said her name was Mrs. Kemp. She seemed surprised when I asked for Betty Scott. She said that Scott had rented a room from her at one time but that she had died about a year ago.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you are going to tell me Scott’s death was a tragic drowning accident?” Oliver asked.

“Probably because you’re a magician. According to Mrs. Kemp, Betty Scott slipped and fell in the bathtub. Struck her head. Drowned.”

Oliver whistled softly. “Any connection with Nick Tremayne?”

“None that I could find.”

“That would have been too easy.”

“Yes. But when I started asking questions, Mrs. Kemp said that another reporter had called about Betty Scott.”

“Hackett.”

“I think so, yes. Mrs. Kemp said she could only tell me what she had told the first reporter—Betty Scott had been a waitress who’d had dreams of going to Hollywood.”

“So there is a vague Hollywood connection,” Oliver said.

“Very vague. A lot of people, including a lot of waitresses, dream of going to Hollywood and getting discovered.”

“Where does Nick Tremayne come from?” Oliver asked after a moment.

Irene gave him another quick, searching glance. “We think alike on some things. I looked into Tremayne’s background. According to his bio, he’s from the Midwest. Chicago, I believe.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, it’s no secret that film star bios are largely fiction. The publicists write them. What makes you doubt Tremayne’s?”

“Something about his accent. I can’t place it exactly but I don’t think it’s Chicago. More West Coast. So, you’ve got three women dead in drowning accidents; two of the deceased were definitely connected to Tremayne. No wonder you think you’re onto a story. You’re sure you don’t know what Gloria Maitland wanted to tell you last night?”

“No, only that it had something to do with Tremayne and that it was red-hot.”

Oliver slowed in preparation for turning off Cliff Road. “How did Gloria Maitland know that you might be interested in whatever she had to tell you about Tremayne?”

“That,” Irene said, “is an excellent question. I’m guessing that she had talked to Peggy. When she called theWhispersoffice, she asked for whoever had taken over Peggy Hackett’s job.”

Oliver eased into a paved parking lot in front of yet another red-tile-and-white-stucco structure. This one looked like a mansion. It was surrounded by luxurious gardens and was protected by a high wall. An ornate wrought iron gate barred the entrance.