Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (29 page)

Enrique leaned against the wall, near the boarded-over windows, his arms folded tightly against his chest. His eyes were on me, and they were sullen.

Rosalia settled back down beside Burton.

Of them all, obviously I trusted the housekeeper the most. Or distrusted her the least. This murderer
made quick decisions. I doubted if Rosalia had been capable of a decision since she married Enrique.

And there was Miranda to consider. After Chase’s murder, Valerie had led the young widow off and put her to bed, leaving her to rest. But if Burton had gone down to see Miranda, could she have risen, found an excuse to accompany him to the study, and struck him down?

Oh, yes. She could have.

Then, stricken not so much by remorse as by despair—the husband she’d slain through jealousy, the secretary attacked in frantic self-protection, the storm that terrified her—Miranda might have gobbled down the pills, seeking oblivion from pain and fear.

No, I couldn’t leave Miranda out of my calculations.

Or Betty.

Betty was back in her place against the wall, her arms locked around her upright knees, her head resting on her arms. Betty missed very little,
yet
she denied giving thought to her surroundings and the people for whom she worked. That interested me. And Betty had obviously had the opportunity to club Burton. In fact, I might have given her that opportunity when I sent her to find him.

Who else could have done it?

I prepared a tray: empty mugs, a thermos of coffee, sugar, cream, some cookies, several pieces of Bundt cake.

My first stop was the piano. If I listened hard, I could hear it despite the scream of the wind.

Valerie played the finishing chords of “Amazing
Grace,” then looked at me coolly. “From gun hunting to hostessing. My, you’re versatile. But, sure, I’d like a cup. What’s the price?”

“Some observations. Cream? Sugar?”

“Both. Lots.”

I was generous.

She took the steaming mug, sipped appreciatively. “I could definitely play a heroine in a tumbril going to the guillotine. Wrenched from luxury—that’s pure cream, you know, as rare today as milk in bottles—bound to the world by strings of silk and wondering what lies ahead. Everything. Nothing. Yes, I’d like that role.”

I sipped my coffee. “What’s the role you’ll have in your next play?”

My light tone didn’t fool Valerie, but the hand lifting the mug didn’t waver.

In fact, she flicked me an amused glance. “You mean in the play that’s going to be bankrolled by Chase’s estate, pursuant to his generous promise at his final family dinner?”

“Yes. I’m sure Roger will honor his father’s wishes.” I ate a cucumber tea sandwich and wondered what had possessed Rosalia to fix tea sandwiches. It was delicious.

“I’m sure of it, too. Or I would be if I were sitting on dry land right now.” She flexed her fingers, ran them up the scale. “And, believe me, if I were smart enough to engineer money for this play, I’d certainly be too smart to get stuck on an island like this.”

It always came back to that. Why would Chase’s murderer maroon all of us on the island in the path of
a hurricane? If I understood that and discovered what Burton knew about the shots …

“… clear to me,” Valerie was saying thoughtfully, “that only two people are above suspicion—you and Trevor. Anyone else here could have shot at Chase. Anyone could have booby-trapped the tub. This morning anyone could have struck down that horrid little man.” Her hand struck several dirgelike chords. She looked across the room toward the mattresses. The fine lines at the edges of her eyes deepened. “Did you find what hit Burton?”

I stood quite still. But, of course, she hadn’t come to the study.

Or was that the point she was making?

Was I dealing with an honest woman or an extremely clever one?

I looked at her blandly. “The poker from the fireplace was lying beside him.”

She shuddered. “God, can you Imagine—think how a poker feels in your hand, heavy and smooth and cold. Think of raising it and swinging down hard, how that would feel, and the sound … Oh, Jesus, the sound! Poor little man.”

If it was Valerie’s hand that had lifted the marble statuette and swung it down onto flesh and bone, she was a consummate actress.

But the one thing I knew about her was that she
was
a consummate actress.

I swallowed another gulp of the hot, sharp French-roast coffee. “I know you were absorbed in your music, but do you have any idea if the others who were here—say between nine o’clock and ten—left for any period of time?”

Her right hand picked out harshly in single notes “Three Blind Mice.” “Be nice if I could alibi someone, wouldn’t it?” Her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “Be nice since it would give me an alibi, too. But you’re out of luck. People were in and out.” She shot a venomous look in Enrique’s direction. “He can’t give his wife a hand with carrying up the food and water, but he damn sure managed to slip out himself and come back a half hour or so later, plenty fat around the middle.”

I, too, glanced toward Enrique. Yes, his shirt did blouse out around his waist.

“That’s not cellulite,” the actress drawled. “In fact, honey, I’ll bet you that’s a money belt, and it might be pretty interesting to know where he got it—and when.”

“I’ll find out.”

She tilted her head, played a few bars from “The Pink Panther.” “Damned if I don’t think you will, Henrie O. Just for the record, why do you care?” Her tone was amused, with just the faintest undertone of admiration.

I finished my coffee, put it down, and picked up the tray. “Why not?” I retorted. “And also for the record, when did you leave the music room?”

“Bitch.” But her tone was genial. “Sure, I left. A couple of times.” Once again her eyes moved across the room. “For what it’s worth, I don’t like to see any living thing hurt. Not cats or dogs. Not even bugs. Certainly not humans.”

“Right.” As I moved away from the piano, I reminded myself that Valerie was an actress, a superb
one. Had someone else forgotten that and lost his life as a consequence?

I offered Roger the sandwich tray.

“No more, thanks.” He shot a hesitant look at me and cleared his throat. “You knew my dad pretty well, didn’t you? A long time ago.”

“Yes, Roger.” Oh, yes, so well. But perhaps never well enough.

“When you were young.” He looked uncomfortable. “I mean—I don’t mean …”

I laughed. It was nice, it was wonderful, to have a reason to laugh. My self-esteem has never been keyed to age. “Roger, I’m an old lady—and glad enough to be one. I’d enjoy being one a bit longer. Look at it this way, everyone’s nineteen only once. Or thirty-two. Or forty-six. Or whatever. Fair enough, right?”

Obviously, my laughter eased his mind. He even managed an uncertain grin in return.

“Please.” And now his plea was open, unabashed. “Tell me, what was Dad like when he was young?”

“Exciting.” I could hear the echo of youth in my voice, lighter and higher than usual.

My answer was honest. I wasn’t naive enough to think that Roger had to be innocent because he asked about Chase. Roger appeared to be rather innocent and open, but that would be a useful guise to adopt, should he instead be devious and calculating. And he could have loved his father and still hated him enough to be his murderer and yet, on one level of his being, hunger to know more about the man who had both given him life and ruthlessly shaped that life.

A clatter on the roof brought every head up.

Lyle gripped the back of the straight chair. “One
of the chimneys is going.” Rosalia put her hands to her face. Valerie’s hands came down hard on the keys. The music ended in a discordant crash.

Again I had the sense of urgency, of time running out. But if the end was coming soon, so soon, I might as well spend some of those final minutes responding to a human need. So I told Roger about Chase’s vigor—“He could work all day, play poker half the night, and cover a train wreck at three the next morning. He was a good writer. That’s what most people don’t mention now. They concentrate on how he built an empire, the battles he fought to beat down competitors, buy up the best talent, corner markets. But he was a hell of a good writer.”

Roger’s face was puzzled. “I can hear in your voice that you cared for him, really cared. Why didn’t it work out?”

I hadn’t realized I was so transparent. But this was the rock-bottom question, the question I would never answer for Roger. It was the judgment I’d made so many years ago: Chase was brilliant and creative and enormously gifted, handsome and entertaining and incredibly disciplined—and he was a man without principle.

But I didn’t have to answer.

The deep, cavernous, enveloping roar of the wind was now a part of our being. We did not so much ignore it as unquestioningly accept it, expect it. For hours the house had quivered and shaken, moaned and rattled.

But the final onslaught still came as a shock.

An abrupt, heart-stopping, mind-numbing shock.

The roof exploded.

It was there; then it was gone. Tiles and timber and mortar and plaster crumbled down, the tearing, rending, crashing sounds mingling with our screams and shouts.

The wind rolled back that section of roof as neatly as a key curls the lid of a sardine can. Water that had collected on the rooftop sloshed down. That was the first cold, abrupt shock. Then came the needle-sharp rain. It stung every exposed piece of flesh. The wind pulled and tugged and pummeled, butting us like invisible goats.

Survival meant clinging to the furniture, a wall, any solid stationary object.

I tried to crawl across the floor toward the mattresses.

I could not move.

I don’t know how long that lasted. Five minutes? Ten? It seemed an eternity. Life came down to wetness and cold and pressure, hanging on, clinging, surviving with the tenacity of an amoeba and just about as much control, knowing that there was no hope, that either the floor would give way, plunging us into the raging waters that surrounded the house, or hypothermia would cradle us in its deadly chill.

If anyone cried or shouted or called out now, no one heard.

Then, without warning, the storm ended.

One instant we were besieged. The next the rain stopped.

Stopped.

The wind dropped from more than a hundred miles an hour—down, down, down—to sixty, fifty,
forty, then to intermittent and unpredictable gusts, still strong, still gusty, but bearable.

We could stand, shakily, uncertainly, but we could stand.

Even more remarkable to minds and spirits overwhelmed by the seemingly never-ending force and intensity of the storm was the sunlight.

Watery, greenish, weak. But it was sunlight.

I heard the exclamations of the others—

“My God, where’s the island?” Lyle stood next to the east wall that was sheared in a diagonal from top right to bottom left. “We’re all that’s left. We’re
all
that’s left!”

“It’s over, it’s over!” Valerie sounded dazed. The rain or the water from the roof had loosened her hair. The scrappy wind tugged at the wet tendrils.

“Look at the water! It’s almost up to the second story.” Roger hung perilously over the side.

Trevor pointed at the china cabinet. “God!” The winds had dumped it forward. Only the piano had kept it from crushing him.

—and I understood their fascination, but my own gaze was riveted on the far horizon and the thick black clouds that climbed skyward to the west. I turned slowly. The sky was clear to the east, but I didn’t doubt what lay beyond our sight: more thick black wall clouds, clouds climbing thousands of feet, clouds encircling us in the eye of the hurricane.

O
nly a special few ever see the eye of a hurricane and live to tell it: adrenaline-fueled pilots of weather planes, sailors in seaworthy—and lucky—ships, and some thrill-seekers who chase hurricanes with video cameras.

Most do not live to tell it.

One of the pluses of a long life in the news business is a brain packed with odds and ends of information, sometimes useful, sometimes entertaining, sometimes devastating.

Covering Camille taught me a lot about hurricanes.

The eye of a hurricane can be as much as twenty miles across. The more severe the storm, the smaller the eye.

It could take as long as two hours to pass if we were, say, at the western edge of the eye even with
the center of the circumference. Or it could take, depending upon our position, as little as fifteen minutes.

So where the hell was the mobile phone!

Like a commentator viewing destruction from a helicopter, Roger’s voice continued. “… drowned animals everywhere, deer, field rats, wild turkeys, squirrels … oh”—his voice dropped—“a raccoon. And there’s …”

I was turning toward the door to the central hall—that wall was still standing, despite the partial removal of the roof—when the commentary paused, then Roger said in a puzzled tone, “Something’s moving under the eaves. I can’t exactly tell—Oh, my God!”

He jumped back and looked wildly around. “Quick, quick. Lyle, get me a two-by-four!”