Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (19 page)

The French door clicked again. Haskell closed it behind him. Roger reshelved the book—an atlas?—and turned to face the room. Valerie toyed with the heavy gold chain at her throat.

Of course, if that enormous policy paid off, it would only enhance the worth of the ultimate estate … to the benefit of almost everyone in the room. How many of them, I wondered, knew about that policy? Actually, I was quite certain that had any persons wanted to know—and were knowledgeable about corporate life—they could easily have discovered it. That kind of information is included in annual reports and would most certainly have been included because that was the whole point—to reassure investors.

The sullen quiet was becoming oppressive, unnatural. I had just resolved to break it when brisk footsteps sounded in the central hallway. Chase and Miranda swept into the room.

It was an entirely different Chase, affable, smiling, exuding good humor with a touch of embarrassment.

If he was changed, Miranda was transformed. Her face glowed with happiness and contentment, her pretty eyes sparkled.

“For God’s sake,” Chase cried, his voice deep and vibrant, “we aren’t holding a wake, people. Here, now, everyone have a drink. Val, do you want sherry? Henrie O, a gin and tonic?”

When a logjam breaks, there is a rush, a surge of logs, crashing and tossing and buffeting one another.

In just that instant the two of them ignited conversation and it was almost as if the dreadful interlude of the morning had never occurred.

I accepted my drink—marveling again at what Chase had discovered of my likes and dislikes after so many years—and observed the suddenly invigorated gathering, Roger in lively conversation with Trevor, even Burton unbending enough to accept a drink from Enrique. I was impressed anew with the power of Chase’s personality, his charm, his persuasiveness, his intensity, and ready, when I had a chance, to tangle with him. Leave
me
a bequest! Not if I could help it. But his ebullient good humor made me smile, irritated as I was.

The only nonresponsive face belonged to Haskell. He looked toward the French doors, then squared his
shoulders and approached his stepfather. He waited patiently until Chase finished talking to Lyle.

I strolled close enough to hear.

“Chase, we need to get the hell off this island. I checked the weather again—from the
Miranda B
.—and they think the hurricane’s picking up speed. Right now it’s heading for Miami. But you know how quick that can change.”

“I know, I know.” And still Chase’s tone was good-humored. “Everybody, everybody—” He held up his hand.

The conversations died away. Every face turned toward Chase.

I will never forget him as he stood in that elegant room that evening. His blue blazer was a perfect fit, of course, and his white slacks a dramatic counterpoint. He never looked better, an aristocratic face—sharply defined, classic features, a firm chin, full lips. His dark hair had just enough silver to qualify as distinguished, his dark eyes were commanding—but, tonight, pleasant.

There was no sense of anger or urgency, and certainly none of fear.

“Some of you—those of you who are old salts—can’t have helped noticing the deterioration in our weather. My stepson’s been monitoring the progress of the storm on our ship radio, as has Enrique. The upshot is, well leave the island after breakfast tomorrow and return to the mainland.” His face hardened. “This morning I indicated we’d stay here until we knew the truth of the shots that were fired.” He paused for a long moment, his mouth compressed,
then managed a wry smile. “This afternoon my legal counsel convinced me that was an unwise decision. Further, I became aware of our weather situation. And finally, I decided I didn’t like the idea of continuing as a sitting duck. So the decision’s been made. Let’s enjoy our dinner and our evening. Tomorrow morning we leave.”

Dinner was almost festive. Sometimes the laughter seemed forced. But there was certainly an undercurrent of relaxation. Chase was making every effort to charm. He went out of his way to speak genially to Trevor and even restored prickly Valerie to good humor, promising to look over her play. “It would be fun to back a show again. Give Miranda and me an excuse to spend more time in New York.” And he gave Valerie’s arm a friendly squeeze.

I was glad, truth to tell, to have the; burden of this investigation lifted from me. And perhaps I could get myself deleted from an official list of suspects, if the investigation was handed over to the police. After all, I’d been nowhere near Chase’s New York brown-stone when the poisoned candy killed the dog and Trevor and I had been standing together when this morning’s shots were fired. I held tight to that hope. Perhaps I could slip away unnoticed, unheralded. Because if the jackals started digging into my past …

I felt almost relaxed. I foresaw my own escape from the turmoil of Chase’s problems. However, I still intended to get out of Chase’s will. And I certainly had much to say to him about Rosalia. But all of that could be handled easily enough. Then I could return to my life, free at last of Chase and his grip on my past. I had come when summoned. I hadn’t accomplished
Chase’s objective, but I felt that I had gone a long way to pay an old debt.

In any event, I was no longer involved.

But, as we walked out of the dining room, Chase leaned toward me and said, “Come to my study. In half an hour.”

C
hase leaned against the mantel above the unlit fireplace and waited for me to answer his request, a request I definitely wanted to reject. He was frowning, as he always frowned when it appeared he might not have his way. But his presentation tonight had lacked the force and fury of our previous encounter. He was determined, yes, but tonight he no longer looked driven and feverish. His face was calm. He smoked, but he lifted the cigarette to his mouth almost absentmindedly.

I sipped the aromatic and sinfully delicious chocolate liqueur and felt the emotional shackles slipping around me again. He had launched so swiftly into his plea that I hadn’t even had a chance to bring up the will and the bequest to me. I would, no fear of that. But first …

“Chase, you can’t keep treating this like a private
problem. Attempted murder is a crime. Contact the police.” This was what I had said at the very beginning; this was what I knew must be done, even as I wondered how to distance myself from public notice.

“Do you want headlines?” His dark eyes were unreadable.

Fury flamed through me for an instant. What right had he to drag me back into his life, to make me vulnerable to exposure?

But I knew the answer to that.

There are rights and rights, and I had not always accorded Chase what belonged to him.

“Henrie O”—suddenly he was all warmth and charm, focusing a magnetic smile on me—“you’re wonderful when you’re mad.” His mouth curved in a rueful, forgive-me smile. “I’m sorry. I’m so obsessed with what’s happened to me that I forget that this isn’t your life, that you have work and deadlines and goals that have nothing to do with me.” He rested his arm along the mantel. His fingers absently turned the base of a marble statuette, one of a pair. “The thing about it is, I have to find out. Because it’s poisoning my life. I look at my son—and Roger and I have had our problems. He’s a visionary, like his mother. He wants the world to be good, but he hasn’t learned that you can’t force people to be good. I look at my son, and I wonder, ‘Is it you? Are you the one?’ I reach out for my wife and suddenly the whisper’s there in my mind. ‘Are you the one? Are you trying to kill me?’” He gripped the statuette. “Or I’m talking to Lyle, Lyle. God, I can’t tell you, Henrie O, it’s like being born again. Can you understand that? He’s what I was when I was young. Smart. Fast. Six jumps
ahead of the crowd. He knows he’s going to make it. He’s got that desire that won’t be quenched. And he’s going to take Prescott Communications into the next century. He’s going to make Prescott Communications the most important media conglomerate in the world. In the world, Henrie O, not just America or Europe. I’ve felt twenty years younger ever since Lyle came. I look at Lyle, and I think, Was it you? Was it
you?
” Chase stared at me. “I’ve got to know. And the hell of it is, I know the police won’t figure it. It’s going to take the kind of instinct they don’t teach at police academies. It’s going to take the kind of instinct you’ve got, Henrie O.”

I looked at him over the rim of the crystal liqueur glass. The poignancy of his cry touched my heart.

Was it you? Wad it you?

How terrible and ultimately how destructive of trust and love to look at a familiar face and hear that dreadful question in your mind.

Chase’s eyes gleamed. “Henrie O, you will stick with it, won’t you?” The relief in his voice laid another burden on me. He couldn’t hide his delight. “God, I knew I could count on you. When we get back on the mainland, you can get your own information on everyone. You’ll have an unlimited expense account, of course, and anything I can do to help, I will.”

He stood triumphant in front of the fireplace, head high, hands jammed into the pockets of his blazer.

I stared at him grimly. Was I acquiescing because he needed me? Or was I taking another desperate step to keep this investigation out of the public eye?
“If I’m to do it, Chase, I will certainly need your help. More help than you’ve given so far. Why didn’t you tell me about the Lloyd’s of London policy?”

The eagerness seeped out of his face. Once again he was confronting the reality of murderous intent behind a familiar smile. “Lyle.” That was all he said. “I don’t want it to be Lyle.” He gave me a half-woeful, half-amused look. “But then I don’t want it to be anybody. And I still keep thinking, This is nuts, this is crazy, this can’t be happening. But it is. And I think about Miranda. She’s … she’s so lovely, so young. She thinks I’m wonderful. I can’t help liking that. No one can. It’s better than the most powerful narcotic. But, the truth is, and I guess she knows it, deep down, I don’t love her the way she loves me. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I would if I could, but the truth is”—and he paused, searching for words, trying himself to understand—“I guess I’m not a person who’s ever been able to focus on love. I’ve fought and battled and struggled all my life. I’ve tried to be good to everyone. But I’ve never really loved …” Now he did look at me, and the emotion in his eyes was unmistakable. “Except once, Henrie O, once when I was young and the world still held magic.”

“But we are no longer young.” I made it crisp. “Looking back is an exercise in futility. The mistakes we’ve made—all of us—are written in stone, Chase. We have to live and die with them—and forgive ourselves, if we can. The point, my dear, is not to make mistakes now, if we can help it. So I’ll try to help you find who’s behind the false face. But from this moment on I want you to be absolutely honest with me.”

He regarded me for a long moment, then gave an
abrupt nod. He pulled a straight chair close to me and sat. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“A lot. Let’s start with the book,
The Man Who Picks Presidents
. You hired a private detective. Who did he investigate?”

There was a flash of appreciation in his eyes. “Burton. Valerie. Haskell. Roger. Enrique.”

What a revealing list.

“Not Miranda?” The liqueur rolled so easily, so deliciously over my tongue.

“Miranda?” His voice rose in sheer surprise. “She wouldn’t.” His confidence was total. “Besides, most of it she couldn’t have known about—the stuff about Elizabeth and Carrie and Roger.”

“That stuff. How much of it is true?”

“It’s twisted, Henrie O, twisted. Sure, I was gone a lot. Dammit, I was
working
. Elizabeth understood that. The bastard took true things and made them look ugly.”

That was a start on what I needed to know. How did Chase view the biography? What stung the most?

“Okay, Chase. Hubbard goes after you in all arenas. Family relationships. Work ethics. Business practices.” I didn’t spare him. “What made you mad enough to file a lawsuit?”

He found his pack of cigarettes, lit one. His voice was hard. “The damnable part was about my family, an outright claim that I married Elizabeth for her money, that I stayed away from her when she was sick because I … because I couldn’t stand to be around anyone seriously ill, that I never had anything to do with Roger.” His face was rigid with anger. “Dammit, I had
work
to do. That was a tough period,
very tough. We were fighting for survival, an antitrust suit, the editor of our Atlanta paper had a fatal heart attack, the guild struck for six months. It was a hell of a time.”

I gave him a minute to calm down. But his answer made it clear. He knew that the leaks came from someone who knew him well, someone very close to home.

“What did your investigator find out?” I looked regretfully into my glass. Almost empty.

Chase’s anger fled, supplanted by genuine amusement. “The damnedest things. Would you believe old Val has a live-in boyfriend, emphasis on boy, a twenty-three-year-old guy named Billy with long blond hair? And Burton had a formal burial with a granite stone for his cat, Cherie, when she died?” He took a last drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out. “Haskell serves dinner at a soup kitchen twice a week, then drops at least a hundred bucks on Saturdays at the races. Roger’s on every liberal mailing list in the country—if not the world.” He shook his head. “The bottom line is that nobody’s got a fat new bank account here or in Switzerland, nobody’s rented a safe-deposit box, nobody looks to have pocketed a penny from any unknown source, and this guy I hired is one of the new brand of computer dicks who specializes in finding stray bonds or hidden assets.”