Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 (7 page)

Time. Haskell couldn’t be a day over twenty-five. If that. Old? Ah, the perspective of youth. I kept my amusement out of my reply. “Too old? Too old for what?”

His dark eyes flashed. “To race.”

I understood. “Powerboat?”

The transformation of his face told it all. The sullenness and resentment were gone. His eyes glowed, like those of a big cat. He was fully alive, eager, excited.

I looked at him intently now, with no amusement and with sharp interest. Speed is an addiction. Racing
takes exquisite timing and a certain kind of madness—and blindness to the consequences.

“Chase won’t let you race?” Why should Chase care?

Haskell turned back to stare out at the sound, his face once again heavy with anger. “He says weekend racing’s good enough. He won’t let me have the money to buy a superboat. If I had that kind of boat, I could go on the circuit.” Eyes brilliant with anger turned on me. “I could win the Gold Cup. I know I could.”

I said nothing.

“I could.” It was almost a shout. Then he turned and walked swiftly away.

I looked after him. Watched him stride, handsome head down, hands jammed in his pockets, through the lush gardens and into the big house.

I pushed away from the railing and began to walk back toward shore. I would have to talk to Chase about Haskell. There is nothing so dangerous as thwarting dreams.

Faintly I heard the cheery
plink
of music wafting from the pool. It was nice to return to lighthearted-ness. And I had, from this vantage point on the pier, the spectacular view I’d sought of the house and its gardens. Lights glowed in almost every window. I reached the steps, hurried down to the oyster-shell path, and headed for the pool. The luminarias still shone brightly and the saccharine music played on, but the pool was deserted now-. Probably the swimmers had gone to bathe and change for dinner. The pale green water reflected the spill of lights. There were a dozen or so white-webbed deck chairs and
lounges. Thick white towels were crumpled on several. Stepping-stones led to the cabana. A nearby wooden hot tub was convenient both to the pool and to Chase and Miranda’s lanai.

I followed another oyster-shell path, this one heading due south, passed the front of the house, and reached a wide shell path that marked the perimeter of the cultivated property. I turned east. The shells crunched underfoot, and I smelled the winy scent of the motionless cypress sentinels always on my right.

Two big buildings sat about a hundred yards behind the main house, both thickly screened by pittosporum bushes. I guessed that the two-story stucco provided quarters for the servants. The square, single-story, cement-block building with two overhead garage-style doors had to be the storage facility. I tried a side door. It wasn’t locked. But, on an island with controlled access, why would it be? I stepped inside and heard the hum of a generator. The air was scented with gasoline. Of course, here was the supply of electricity for the island. I flipped a switch. Bright overhead lights beamed down on a collection of lawn and garden machinery: a tractor, a riding lawn mower, edgers, blowers. There were several rooms: one a walk-in freezer, another stocked with lawn and garden supplies, another a mini-warehouse for foodstuffs. All were superbly supplied and meticulously clean.

I came back out into the twilight. Behind the storage building I found a neat landfill and an incinerator. A wisp of smoke curled out of the incinerator chimney. A luxuriant herb garden flourished between the storage building and the servants’ quarters. The
pittosporum and banana shrubs provided a lovely and aromatic screen between the service buildings and the main house. A wedge of pines separated the service buildings from two clay tennis courts. These, too, remained private, with a grove of weeping willows between the courts and a small cinder jogging track. Everything had been carefully designed so that it was possible to enjoy any aspect of the island in almost total seclusion.

Chase’s vacation retreat had all the appurtenances of the most elegant spa. But the springy grass and sandy soil couldn’t be disguised and, once I passed the cypress border, I faced the harsh reality of Dead Man’s Island: waxy-leaved live oaks, crackling-frond palmettos, prickly slash pines; sea myrtle, yucca and bayberry, yaupon, winged sumac, and Hercules’-club; cinnamon ferns, ebony spleenwort, and resurrection ferns; cordgrass, sea oxeye daisy, and cattails.

There was only one break in that exuberant fecundity, another oyster-shell track plunging into the untamed maritime forest. I took only a few steps, then knew this exploration would have to wait for daylight. Beneath the canopy of trees, it was already dark, a darkness that had never known electric lights. Leaves rustled, something seemed to slip beneath the bushes. I smelled rotting plants, pine resin, dank water, insecticides. Despite the latter, the whine of insects rose above the crackling of twigs.

I swatted a mosquito and turned to go, then stopped short and looked into the wary, intelligent eyes of a crouching raccoon. The masked face appeared
amused, but I knew that was only an anthropomorphic reaction on my part.

But I carried with me a memory of that sleek, sardonic, uncaring face as I retraced my steps. I used the entrance, also unlocked, at the end of the south wing and ran lightly up the stairs to the second floor. I had satisfied the itch but only supplanted it with a different, less easily assuaged discomfort.

As I stepped into my pink room, I was trying to dispel the sense of alienation and menace my walk had given me. I was so preoccupied that I almost passed by the desk without noticing.

I suppose if I hadn’t been in so many hundreds of strange rooms in past years, sometimes in countries where the press is often perceived as an enemy, I might not have noticed. But I have been in those rooms … and I did notice.

My purse, which I had through habit aligned so exactly, was not where I had left it. Oh, it was only a matter of less than an inch. But purses do not move themselves, no matter how infinitesimal the distance.

Someone—either careless or hurried—had picked it up and, no doubt, rifled through it.

I did so myself. Nothing was gone.

I checked the dresser. The files were there. They were not in the same order.

Ah, that was careless.

Or, assuming a clever adversary, it might have been quite deliberate.

The overall effect was the same. I wasn’t afraid. But I was damned alert. The equation had changed. Someone was much too interested in me. But there
was nothing in this room or among my things to reveal the truth about me. Thank God.

Dinner was exquisite: beef tournedos, asparagus and carrots, fresh raspberries for dessert, California Chardonnay. The service was flawless. Enrique moved on cat feet, always at the right place at the right time. The surroundings couldn’t have been more charming. Not even the Waterford crystal could match the glisten of the parquet de Versailles floors. But the conversations were tense and unilluminating. Roger Prescott provided the only flash of vigor toward the meal’s end when he passionately, despite Chase’s grim disapproval, persisted in debating his father about the tragedy of the homeless.

“You know why they’re out there, thousands of them—it’s because government stopped funding mental hospitals. We the people magnanimously gave the mentally ill their freedom. Jesus, how great to be free to walk the streets, frightened and helpless with no place to go and nobody to give a damn. Jesus, that was generous, wasn’t it?” Roger downed his second glass of wine, all in one gulp. “We’re not talking about bums, Dad. We’re talking about people who are too sick to work. And the ones who are on the streets because of alcohol and drug problems, they’re sick, too, but society doesn’t want to treat them. And now we have the New Poor, the people who used to have jobs, good solid members of the middle class who have been discarded by a business system trying to recover from the ravages of Reaganomics. Everywhere you turn government’s cutting services, less
money for drug treatment, less money for the mentally ill. Is it any wonder crime increases? Why don’t you cover
that
story?”

Chase glared at his son. “If you want a soapbox, Roger, earn it. Prescott Communications covers what I want covered because it belongs to
me
. It’s as simple as that. I earned my way in this world. That’s the American way. Take the proceeds from your latest book and buy yourself a newspaper.”

Roger’s plump cheeks flamed.

I wondered if his book had been self-published. Or was the dig merely that it hadn’t made money?

Lyle Stedman broke in. “We do cover the homeless issue, Roger. From all sides. Including the truth that people can’t expect jobs if they have no skills and if they aren’t willing to learn any. And if you’ve studied any history, you know Johnson’s Great Society didn’t work. So don’t come at us with a lot of re-treaded ideas.” The newspaperman’s eyes were cold and bored.

“That’s half an answer,” Roger retorted angrily. “Of course it didn’t work. Because all the money went into that stupid war. As for your coverage, it sucks. You carry wire news. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. You’re great on murders and society rape and business, oh, God, yes, let’s cover business. But business isn’t so much fun anymore, is it? IBM’s laying off. GM’s laying off. You pick up the paper, and it’s a new giant scrapping people and lives every day.”

A frown furrowed Valerie St. Vincent’s perfect face. The actress had chosen a rich floral silk chemise. “Even in times of economic woe, people must have
art. All it will take to revive Broadway is one good show, one really good show. Chase, darling, after dinner, we must have a moment, just the two of us, to talk about the future. You’ve always been willing to gamble. I knew when you asked me to come here this weekend that something wonderful was going to happen.” She lifted her head. Her upswept platinum hair glistened.

“I only gamble on a sure thing, Valerie.” Chase’s cold voice was dismissive. “You haven’t been in a hit in six years.”

The actress’s hand tightened on the stem of her crystal wineglass. Now her beautiful face had the empty look of a car-crash dummy.

I surveyed my fellow guests with interest during these exchanges. I had no illusions that I could “dowse” guilt for Chase, but I was beginning to have a feel for these people and I wanted to match these judgments against my take of the would-be murderer.

Burton Andrews was a toady, quick to offer an admiring laugh at Chase’s smallest quip, eager to trumpet agreement with the boss’s opinions. But dislike flickered in his eyes when Chase wasn’t looking in his direction.

Valerie St. Vincent was self-absorbed to the point of narcissism. The actress desperately hungered for love and admiration and praise. Why had Chase turned on her so brutally? She still had a look of shock, her lips so compressed that tiny white patches marked the corners of her mouth.

Lyle Stedman sipped his wine and smiled grimly. “You’d better be damned glad somebody’s covering
business, Roger. It may not be the best system, but you show me one that works better.”

Miranda Prescott sat at the end of the table opposite her husband. She was lovely tonight in a turquoise silk sarong. An orchid was tucked in her softly curling black hair. But the eyes above her social smile looked anxious, and they constantly sought her husband.

Chase seemed unaware of her scrutiny.

He seemed, in fact, even more feverish than when we’d met earlier in his study. His conversation erupted in staccato bursts and he jumped restlessly from topic to topic: the new church-state relations in Mexico, the concern over stability in the Russian nations, the continuing unrest in the Balkans. He ate little. But the mound of stubs in the ashtray grew fast.

Trevor Dunnaway sat between Miranda and Haskell Lee, who was on my left. I couldn’t see the lawyer very well, but I heard him. It would be difficult not to hear Trevor Dunnaway. His smooth, golden voice rolled on and on, cheerfully describing the latest addition to his collection of trompe l’oeil, an eighteenth-century French oil that absolutely, he exclaimed, looked like a bas-relief sculpture.

I certainly gave Dunnaway good marks for his efforts to be an entertaining guest at a less than rollicking social occasion. But, more than that, I found myself more interested in the handsome lawyer than I had been before. Those who enjoy the art that attempts to look something other than what it is must have, at the very least, a wry sense of humor. I looked forward to talking to him in more depth.

Haskell concentrated on his food and made no
effort to talk to me or to Trevor. His was the obdurate, scarcely veiled rudeness of a spoiled child, still so caught up in his own wants that he fails to see other human beings as real. They were, at best, purveyors of satisfaction. They were, at worst, obstacles.

As for Roger, his round face still had a high flush and his voice was querulous. Chase’s son had drunk too much, which made me wonder how much he’d consumed before coming to dinner. Roger was an emotional man consumed by causes. The world thinks highly of cause bearers who succeed, calling them visionaries; those who fail it dismisses as crazies. But there is one certain truth about zealots: They are never bound by the rules the rest of us follow.

Much as he hated to accept it, Chase believed that someone now seated at his dining table was a poisoner.

What did I know about our potential murderer?

Poisoning is a stealthy crime. The killer is seldom present at the fatal moment. In my view, poisoning argues either cowardice or enormous caution.

Valerie St. Vincent would be cautious, as would Chase’s secretary and his lawyer. All three were manipulative, always alert to improve their situation, always hiding their desires beneath carefully preserved facades of beauty or amiability.

Lyle Stedman, on the other hand, would be careful but not cautious. I had trouble picturing that combative man sliding the tip of a syringe filled with cyanide into a piece of candy.

I looked down the table.

My glance locked for an instant with Miranda’s.
Her worried eyes probed mine, demanding … demanding what?