Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (28 page)

Lyle’s mattresses, intended for use in a desperate last-ditch effort to survive, were piled three deep along the south wall of the music room, an interior wall. Miranda, as unmoving as the dead, lay on the top mattress, securely wrapped in a cream-colored wool blanket. Valerie still sat beside her, holding a limp hand.

Betty moved forward quickly to help. Valerie laid that slack hand on the covers and stood, looking toward us.

Lyle hesitated, shifting his hands for a better grip. “We need to get a mattress out from under Miranda’s.”

“No,” I said quickly. “There’s room for Burton on the top mattress. We can ease Miranda over and put him next to her.”

It made sense. It was easier. But my objective was to keep them together. I must watch out for both at the same time.

One of us had slammed that statuette onto Burton’s skull.

Had Miranda swallowed that bottle of pills of her own accord? Distraught with grief over Chase’s murder or undone by guilt, it was possible, but I was in no mood to take chances.

Betty and Valerie gently moved Miranda, snug in her blanket, to the interior of the mattress, close to the wall.

Lyle and Roger shifted Burton onto the mattress. Fresh blood stained the ticking beneath his head. I checked his pulse. Still erratic, perhaps a little
weaker. His left cheek felt clammy beneath my fingers.

“A blanket, please.”

Betty brought a light wool coverlet.

As I gently drew it over Burton, I decided to make sure the head wound was all we had to deal with. I handed my flashlight to Betty and carefully eased a hand under his body and inside his blazer. I felt the crackle of an envelope in an inside pocket. My immediate instinct is always to investigate. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled the envelope out.

The plain white envelope was full of crisp fifty-dollar bills. It was quite a stack. This was a nice sum, perhaps as much as five thousand dollars.

Roger looked over my shoulder. “Oh, that’s probably a stash of cash from the safe. Dad always had plenty of cash with him. I guess Burton was bringing it along in case the house was completely washed away.”

There wasn’t even a note of suspicion in Roger’s voice.

I hoped Roger had the benefit of tough advisers when he took control of his father’s empire. Otherwise, it would be broken up and swallowed by predators faster than vultures devouring a road kill.

Because my take on that envelope was entirely different. Burton was stealing the money. I knew it as certainly as I know that Santa’s jolly ho-ho-ho is cynically designed to make cash registers ring. Now I understood why it had surprised me to find Burton hard at work this morning salvaging files, why the episode had had a counterfeit feel. That had been his excuse, his cover, to get his fingers on cash that nobody
might ever ask about. A nice, safe, cautious little crime. If the house went, who would ever know or question what had happened to the valuable contents of that safe?

If the house went …

I lifted my head, looked toward the boarded-over windows. Somehow they still held against the unceasing, demonic attack of the wind and rain. Water was beginning to seep inside and trickle down the walls.

I handed the envelope to Roger.

Without comment, he folded and stuffed it into a back pocket of his shorts. He followed my gaze and stared at the windows, listening to the banshee scream of the storm.

A heavy thump shook the wall that once had faced the tennis courts. A good-size something, a tree limb or a drowned deer perhaps, had struck the house.

Every eye watched the wall, but miraculously it held. Each in his or her own fashion welcomed the extra minutes or perhaps even seconds of protection afforded us from the killing storm outside. Who could hope for more?

I was once a prisoner of government forces in El Salvador, along with three leftist guerrillas. We had expected to die at dawn. Indeed, we most certainly would have except for a fifteen-year-old boy who had led us to safety while our captors slept from the drugged wine he’d brought them. On that night I had felt the unmistakable touch of death’s bony fingers, on that night and during this long day.

Waiting helplessly to die engenders a somber quiet. It pulls the muscles of the face, plants frightful
phantasms in the mind, recalls to the heart a lifetime’s triumphs and failures.

But I wasn’t going to sit here and wait to die. I still had a task—to discover Chase’s murderer and Burton’s attacker—and I intended to see it through. If I could.

But first I looked around the room. Trevor was lying, pillows propped behind him, on the couch next to the opposite wall, just past the piano. His right arm shielded his face; he had withdrawn. I glanced from one face to another, stopped finally at Rosalia’s. She once again sat on the floor in the southeast corner of the room. Her hands held the rosary, her lips moved, her eyes were closed.

“Rosalia.”

She lifted her head.

“Will you come here, please, and sit beside Mr. Andrews?”

Rosalia hurried across the room.

Valerie, still standing beside the mattresses, stretched and yawned. After breakfast she’d put on green linen slacks and a cream cotton turtleneck. Her golden hair was pulled up in a ponytail with a saucy green bow. Her clothes were cheerful; her face was not. Deep lines bracketed those cherry-red lips, her skin was ashen, dark shadows made her eyes huge. “I don’t have designs on the little man, but if Rosalia suits you better, that’s fine with me.” She turned and walked to the piano, slid onto the seat, and touched a key. The note was almost lost in the howl of the wind.

I followed the actress with my eyes. No one could ever say Valerie had slow thought processes.

Rosalia came up to me.

“Why don’t you sit here?” I patted the mattress, next to Burton.

The housekeeper darted an unhappy look at me but obediently took her place, perching gingerly on the mattress’s edge.

“Would you like something hot from a thermos?”

She started to get up.

“No, please. I want you to stay with Burton. If anyone comes near, watch carefully. Shout if anyone tries to touch him.” I spoke loudly enough so that all in the room could hear, even over the storm.

Rosalia’s fingers clutched the rosary. Her wide eyes clung to my face.

That done, I moved to the table in front of the fireplace. It was laden with thermoses, bottles of water, and several covered plates. I poured a mug of coffee for Rosalia and for myself. I lifted the cloth from the first plate and snagged a ham sandwich. I’ve never tasted anything as good as that sandwich: the ham had a sweet-sugary Virginia-smoke taste, the mustard was just hot enough, the French bread was flaky and fresh. It took only four bites to devour the sandwich. Then I took Rosalia’s coffee to her and gulped some of mine.

And looked around our beleaguered sanctuary.

I was seeking a killer, a thoughtful, cunning, plan-ahead killer.

The washcloth had told me that. The killer had grabbed it, carried it along in a pocket. The plan: to use the washcloth when gripping the statuette. There would be no incriminating fingerprints.

The washcloth told me even more:

That the attack on Burton was premeditated.

That the killer was well acquainted with Chase’s study and the mantel with its twin statuettes.

That Burton sought out the killer for a clandestine meeting.

Further, I was confident I knew the reason for this clandestine meeting. Burton knew—somehow—who had shot at Chase.

That person could be anyone on the island except myself, Trevor Dunnaway, and Haskell. Trevor and I were excluded because we had been together when the shots rang out. Haskell was excluded because he was no longer on the island and could not possibly have attacked Burton. (I would not think about the size of the waves now pounding the coast.)

I looked from figure to figure in this fragile shelter against the storm and knew one was my quarry. And there was the matter of Chase’s missing gun. Why hadn’t I noticed, after the explosion, whether the jacket of Chase’s warm-up had bulged?

The gun hadn’t been in his nylon warm-up or his blazer after he died. Chase could have dropped it into a dresser drawer when he put on his swimsuit. If so, that was fine. But it could well be that someone else had retrieved the gun after Chase died—and helped Miranda swallow pills.

What mattered now was whether the killer had hidden the gun somewhere in this room.

I started with the mattresses. I had Rosalia help me pull them out from the wall, taking care not to jostle Burton or Miranda. I poked the flashlight into the space, then made certain no gun was tucked beneath any of the mattresses at any point.

I played the light along the floor by the south wall, passing Lyle in his straight chair.

He raised a dark red eyebrow. “Looking for something special?”

I hesitated. I had no intention of underestimating the murderer, and it would occur to even the meanest intelligence that I was definitely searching for something. I decided to take a gamble.

“Chase’s gun is missing. I couldn’t find it anywhere this morning.”

I motioned for Betty to stand up, flashed the light where she’d been sitting, then stepped past Enrique to investigate the maroon velvet drapes. I took my tune over the boards, testing them to be certain one wasn’t loose—with a gun behind it.

“Christ.” Lyle swung off the chair, then picked it up and slammed it on the floor to get attention. “Okay, everybody, on your feet. Instead of Who’s Got the Thimble, we’re playing a grown-up version, Who’s Got Chase’s Gun. First rule, stand where you are and don’t move until Henrie checks you out. Any sudden movements may result in a broken back—I play rugby and I won’t tackle you for the fun of it.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw even Rosalia scramble to her feet. Everyone was standing now, including Valerie by the piano.

I wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or amused. But it was effective, I’d give Lyle that. Maybe the direct way, in this instance, was best. I suppose I do have a tendency to be serpentine. And it didn’t escape my notice that he was standing guard while I did the searching, the act of a man with nothing to fear or the
ploy of a man who knew the gun would turn up but wanted to focus suspicion on the others.

I pulled the screen away from the fireplace, got down on one knee, and craned my head to look up into the chimney. It was thoroughly nasty, not having been designed to repel the kind of rain we were enduring. Water ran in driblets down the sides. Pools of black gooey gunk were collecting beneath the andiron. I yanked my head back and motioned for Betty to bring me one of the extra two-by-fours lying near the windows.

I stuck the plank up into the interior of the fireplace and prodded the shelving where the chimney widened.

All I got was more gunk.

When I wriggled back and stood on the hearth, holding the two-by-four, Valerie called out in a portentous voice, “And what can the Wicked Witch of the West tell us about our future?”

“Santa Claus won’t be coming down this chimney. More than that I cannot say.” I propped the board against the fireplace. Next I checked the table. It took only a moment to be certain that no gun was hidden beneath a fold of cloth.

In quick succession I explored the curtains of the second window, again yanking and tugging on the boards, opened the corner china cabinet, pulled up the cushions of the two couches along the north wall, including the one where Trevor had rested.

“Trevor, if you’ll pull the couches out from the wall …”

He did, and I checked out that area.

“Now lift up one end of this one …”

The housekeeping on the island was certainly spectacular. Not a scrap of paper, a Kleenex, or a pen lay on the floor where the couch had sat. And ditto for the second one.

“Thanks, Trevor.”

The lawyer put down the second couch, rubbed his back, then glared at me. “I guess I can sit down again, can’t I?”

“Sure.” I generally waved a hand around the room. “Thanks, Lyle. At ease, everybody. No gun, so we can all relax a—”

Valerie lifted the lid of the piano. “Hot, hot, hot,” she cried, pointing with a crimson-tipped forefinger.

Lyle and I reached the piano together.

I made a quick decision—consequences be damned—and grabbed the weapon that rested on the strings of the piano. I looked up at Lyle. “Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m sure you will. And you’ve effectively destroyed any fingerprints on it.” His glance was cold and thoughtful.

“What are the odds there were any?” I wasn’t going to worry about fingerprints; I was glad simply to have the weapon in hand. My hand.

It was either the gun Chase had had in the living room on Friday or its twin, a .32 Smith & Wesson revolver. I released the barrel latch to check the five-shot cylinder. It was full. I closed the latch and shoved the gun into the pocket of my slacks. A large patch pocket, fortunately. Probably designed for gardening tools. It served splendidly for a revolver.

Valerie gave an elaborate shrug. “Sorry I didn’t
detect a false note as I played, but what the hey! I’m only an actress, not Miss Marple.”

“Anyone could have put the gun there,” I said crisply. But it certainly underscored the reality that Valerie must have been absent from the piano at some time during the morning.

In any event, I felt the gun was almost an omen. At least the murderer wasn’t armed. And, if not a sharpshooter, I am adequate with a handgun.

I should have remembered the old warning that possessing a gun is only meaningful if you are willing to shoot.

But I wasn’t thinking about shooting. The gun was safely in my pocket, and now I felt free to begin my real quest.

Valerie slipped back onto the piano bench. Her fingers gently touched the keys. A hymn this time: “Nearer My God to Thee.” Her eyes gazed off unseeingly. I wished I was close enough to look into their depths. But her face looked tranquil.

Roger still stood by the sideboard, filling his plate. He ate stolidly, seemingly voraciously hungry.

Lyle returned to his straight chair, straddled it again, his chin resting on his arms atop the rail. But his air of leashed strength betrayed that this man was ready to respond, whatever happened.