Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (6 page)

“No one else was in the apartment on either Friday or Saturday? A repairman? A friend of Miranda’s? A guest of a member of the staff? A delivery person?”

“I checked. Believe me, I checked.” He brushed back a lock of ebony hair that had fallen across his forehead, making him look—for an instant—younger, vulnerable. “No one else. It’s one of them. It
has
to be one of them.” He ground out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

I wondered if Chase’s insistence had to do with conviction or fear. It would be even more horrifying to think you had a deadly enemy abroad and no hint as to his or her identity. It was better, if terrible, to be able to draw a circle around a particular group.

But he should be able to do better than that.

“Chase, how about leveling with me? You know these people. You know them damn well. Who hates you? Who would benefit?”

His feverish eyes slid away from mine. “Henrie O, I promise you, I’ve looked at it from every angle, and I don’t have any idea. Not a single damn idea.”

I knew it as clearly as if it were splashed on a billboard. He was lying. He had an idea, all right. That made me mad.

“Chase, dammit, I can’t work in the dark. Whom do you suspect?”

He stared stubbornly down at the floor and shook his head, once, with finality.

It was an impasse, and it was I who finally surrendered. He wouldn’t say. Perhaps if he put his suspicion into words it would destroy for him forever that gossamer trust that binds friends and lovers.

I looked down at my notebook, recalled the faces I’d met at tea, and wondered how I was going to undertake what might be the hardest assignment I’d ever had.

I don’t suppose Chase has ever borne silence well. “Well, what do you think?” His deep voice crackled with impatience.

I looked up in surprise and some irritation.

He was regarding me with the demanding air of a small boy awaiting the production of a rabbit from a magician’s hat.

“Chase, I have yet to talk with anyone. I scarcely have any ideas.” And the few I had, I didn’t intend to share for now.

“But you’re so good with instinct.” He sounded almost querulous. Once again he pushed back that stray lock of hair. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you before you met any of them, so you could be prepared, be on the lookout …”

His voice trailed off.

I suddenly felt terribly sorry for him. Did he think I was the human equivalent of a divining rod, able to sniff out the presence of evil like a dowser locating water? Was that why he had instructed his secretary to sweep me to my room upon arrival? To keep my faculties untainted by exposure to his intimate circle of suspects?

“I thought I’d tell you everything. Then maybe at dinner tonight, maybe you’d just
know
.” His eyes flickered around the room, touched my face, moved on, returned. “But maybe—what do you think, Henrie O? Do you know which one did it?” He lit a cigarette, drew on it, stubbed it out.

How interesting. Obviously, Chase knew I’d crashed Miranda’s tea party and he believed his would-be killer had been there, too. Apparently he had included the members of his staff on his list of suspects simply because they had opportunity. I wondered how wise it was to dismiss them from his suspicions. It’s always astonished me that more of those who live out their lives cosseting the very rich do not harbor enormous resentment. Personally, every time I see a Mercedes arrogantly encamped in a no-parking zone or hogging two slots, I’ve wished I was in the turret of a tank.

I tapped my notebook with my pen. “Chase, I’m not into instant Rorschach—”

“Henrie O, I want your gut response.”

“My gut response? My gut response is that you’re acting like a fool.”

His head jerked up. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “What the hell do you mean?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you, Chase, how dangerous this could be? Let’s say one of these people intends to kill you. And you’ve conveniently gathered here—with no means of escape other than a single boat, which you control—a handful of people who were on the premises when your candy was poisoned. I should think the temptation—for the guilty one—would be overwhelming.”

He pushed up from the couch. Jamming his hands in his pockets, he stared down at me with burning eyes. “So it’s a gamble, Henrie O. The ultimate gamble. Black or red, which will it be? Will I win? Or lose? Well, I don’t intend to lose, my dear.” His voice was harsh. “I’ve never been a loser. Never. The house always wins. Ultimately, the house always wins. Well, I’m the house and I damn sure intend to win. Look at it”—he pulled his hands free, smacked a fist into a palm—“I’ve got the advantage. I know one of them’s a killer. I’m on guard. I’ve got my defenses up. Even more than you know about. But you’re my secret weapon, Henrie O. No one knows who you are. No one knows what a devil you are for the truth.”

I rose. “Chase, you’re talking years ago. I haven’t gone after a story in almost a decade. And how can I do it here? No telephones, no files, no contacts, no way to find out about each of these people.” I certainly didn’t consider the intermittent working of my cellular phone an adequate resource and did not believe this was the time to mention it. “You know how I did a story. I looked and searched and scraped back the surface and peeled off the facade. I knew whom I was dealing with. I knew more about them than their doctors or their lovers, never mind their mothers. How the hell can I do that here? Look, this is an ill-conceived idea from start—”

He turned away, striding to a bank of filing cabinets tucked in an alcove. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocked the top drawer and lifted out files, one after another, then swung around, his arms full, his face triumphant. “Henrie O, I haven’t forgotten
how you work. I’ve got it all here for you. Everything that can be found out about each and every one of them.”

I stared at the green folders.

That they were full of information I didn’t doubt.

But it was information I hadn’t gathered.

I am always suspicious of facts gathered by anyone other than myself.

I learned that distrust in the real world. Words are, quite simply, weapons. How a person or an act or a thought looks depends entirely upon how—and by whom—it is described.

As an example, think for a moment about a presidential press conference. Do you describe the president as thoughtful or worried, as voluble or chatty, as combative or defensive, as vigorous or hyper? Think about it.

So I took the folders in my arms with considerable concern. Besides, I well knew that Chase had no scruples. He had proved that to me many years ago. So I had no way of knowing what slant he’d taken or, as it’s put today, what kind of spin he’d applied. Still, some information was better than none….

And I wouldn’t forget the source.

But I was still unhappy.

“That’s not the only problem, Chase. So I have records and people to talk to—but what makes you think they’ll talk to me? Why should they?”

He leaned against the mantel, once again the lord of the manor. His armor was in place. There was no hint of the troubled, fearful man who had looked at me moments earlier with pain-filled eyes. “You’re with me. I knew I could count on you. And it’s going
to be easy, Henrie O. Here’s what we’re going to do….”

As I closed the study door behind me, I still had plenty of misgivings, but I knew Chase was determined. I knew, too, what that meant. No matter how dangerous and ill-considered I might see this venture, my choices were simple: I was either with him or against him.

Once, years ago, I was on a runaway horse. Even now I can hear the thud of hooves, smell the horse’s panicked sweat, feel the tremble of his muscles between my legs. I had no control and yet I was a part of a blurring, headlong race through time and space.

I was feeling the same way when I regained my room. I put the folders in the top dresser drawer, pushing aside my lingerie. There was a folder for every person on the island, including Chase and me. Our inclusion interested me. I well knew how wily his mind was. What did he want me to learn from his folder, and what indeed from my own? But I wasn’t going to read them now. Instead, I placed my purse on the desk and left. We were to gather for drinks at seven. It was a few minutes short of six. I wanted to take a preliminary survey of my surroundings. I felt an imperative need to flesh out my picture of this unique island.

I have a friend who is always sharing moments from her past lives. My standard response is always “So what?” I mean, so she was a discarded mistress of Louis XIV or a pioneer wife who died of a rattlesnake bite on the way to Idaho, what does that have
to do with the price of computer disks today? Especially since she presently faces neither a rival for a king’s love nor snake-infested environs.

So I can reasonably attribute my customary restlessness until I have checked out my surroundings to an early enchantment with
The Last of the Mohicans
. But could I have once been a scout for a wagon train? Or long ago a shepherd tending an unruly flock? If so, no doubt next time I’m almost certain to return as a bloodhound. I believe in consistency.

In any event, I indulged my itch to look around.

I stepped out on my balcony, which overlooked the front of the house and the sweep of the rosebeds and the sound.

It was like stepping into a sauna.

Instantly I felt the press of the hot moist air against me. The sky had a copper-yellow glaze, and the air was sticky and still. The breeze I’d enjoyed as I crossed to the island in Frank Hudson’s boat had died away. Not a breath stirred the leaves of the magnolias and the live oaks or the fronds of the palmetto palms.

The tall slender cypress were like black cutouts against the glassy sky, making them even more ominous than usual. I’ve always found cypress to be cheerless trees. They remind me of the tombs along the Appian Way and the dust-choked heat of Rome.

As I surveyed the gardens, the luminaria-style lanterns around the pool came on and, faintly, I heard the strains of Hawaiian music, the splashing of water, and laughter. I was tempted to go for a quick swim before dinner. There was still time, and it would be enormously refreshing.

But that itch had to be satisfied.

Once out in the hallway I saw closed doors on either side. I wanted to know who was staying where. In fact, I wanted a plan of the house. So I set out to make one.

There were eight guest bedrooms on the second floor, four in each wing. The central portion of the second floor contained Chase’s study, a library, a music room, and a billiard room. On the ground floor the central portion held the dining room—with an elegant three-pedestal mahogany table accompanied by a set of fourteen Sheraton chairs—and the living room, where we’d had tea. The back portion of the ground floor was given over to the kitchen and a laundry. The kitchen was humming with activity. Rosalia, Chase’s housekeeper, was tall and slender. Too slender. She nodded shyly and didn’t look in the least surprised when I unexpectedly invaded her territory. Her face had a grave, deep sadness. I wondered what her story was. Most people have stories, especially those with unsmiling mouths. I found the maid setting the table for dinner. Betty’s black and white uniform was too right, and she looked haggard. Briskly she asked if she could help me, but I felt almost certain I caught a flash of fear in her weary eyes and I filed that away for future investigation. Enrique was selecting the wines for dinner. Chase’s valet was carefully polite when I spoke to him. I began to think the servants might have a much clearer idea of why I was a guest than anyone I’d met at tea. But why should they care? I persisted with my questions to Enrique until I had a good idea of the layout of the house. I learned that Chase and Miranda occupied all of the
north wing’s ground floor. Their quarters overlooked—but at a nice distance—the swimming pool, he said. The south wing on the ground floor contained a movie theater and a small art gallery.

I took time to visit the gallery and was impressed by the collection of American pastoral art.

But the house was only a part of my quest. I stepped out onto the front porch. Struck once again by the furnace-hot heat, I walked slowly through the fragrant gardens to the pier. Just past the boathouse I came upon a lone figure, leaning on the railing, staring out at the sound. He didn’t turn at the sound of my footsteps.

I came up beside him. He was certainly a spectacularly handsome young man despite the perpetual scowl on his face.

“Where would you rather be, Haskell? Out on the water?”

That caught his attention. Chase’s stepson turned toward me. No mid-century matinee idol had ever looked better. With his thick chestnut hair, deep-set eyes with long dark lashes, smooth olive skin, firm chin, and sensual lips, he surely cut a wide swath among the ladies.

His look was half-surprised, half-skeptical. “How did you know?”

“There’s something about a man who loves water.” I looked beyond him, out to the sound, remembering languid seas I’d shared with Richard. It’s easy to tell when a man loves the sea. There’s something about the lift of their heads when they look out on the water, something about the way they stand. “And,” I added more prosaically, “you have a tan that you’ve
acquired over a period of years and you’re wearing boaters.”

He glanced down at his shoes. A faint smile tugged at those sensual lips.

“You spend a lot of time on the water.”

That brought back his scowl. “Except when I’m at the fucking office.” His dark eyes slid toward me. “Sorry,” he said stiffly.

I felt a wrench of my heart at his youth. It has been a good many years since anyone apologized to me about language.

“If you don’t like the office, why do you go?” I leaned against the railing, listening to the water sucking at the pilings beneath us.

“Because he makes me.” His anger toward Chase crackled through his voice. “What business is it of his? It’s my money. It
should
be my money. Why did my mom put him in charge? Everything I do, he has to approve. He wouldn’t let me have a penny if I didn’t do things his way. And I’m running out of time.”