Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 5

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Still, that is a draw­back," I po­in­ted out crisply. "But one we can de­al with la­ter. All right, Cha­se, let's see if I ha­ve it stra­ight."

  I re­ad alo­ud:

  "Date of At­tem­p­ted Mur­der of Cha­se Pres-cott: July 25, a Sa­tur­day.

  "Location: the Pres­cott brow­n­s­to­ne apar­t­ment, Cen­t­ral Park West, New York City.

  "Modus ope­ran­di: po­ison."

  Chase to­ok a de­ep drag on the ci­ga­ret­te, smot­he­red a co­ugh. "If I hadn't se­en it hap­pen, I still wo­uldn't be­li­eve it. I went in­to my study to work on so­me of the fi­nan­ci­al stuff, you know, get­ting re­ady for the re­fi­nan­cing. I was right in the mid­dle of that. An­y­way, I went in­to my study and fo­und a box of candy sit­ting on my desk. From my fa­vo­ri­te sto­re. I was ple­ased. I tho­ught pro­bably Mi­ran­da"-he bro­ke off, to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, co­ug­hed - "pro­bably Mi­ran­da had got them for me. I ope­ned it up, and it was a box of mar­zi­pan - "

  Marzipan. That bro­ught back a few me­mo­ri­es of my own. Cha­se's tas­te hadn't chan­ged.

  Chase flas­hed that well-re­mem­be­red bo­yish grin with just the smal­lest tin­ge of em­bar­ras­sment. "I've al­ways be­en crazy abo­ut them. Hadn't had any for a whi­le. The damn cho­les­te­rol bu­si­ness."

  I res­t­ra­ined myself from sug­ges­ting that ci­ga­ret­tes we­re a go­od de­al mo­re de­ad­ly-usu­al­ly-than mar­zi­pan.

  Smoke wre­at­hed his fa­ce. "So I grab­bed the box and pul­led out the ne­arest one and I lost my grip on it. The damn thing tum­b­led right off the desk." Cha­se's lips pres­sed to­get­her for a mo­ment, then he spo­ke so qu­i­etly I co­uld scar­cely he­ar him. "God, it was aw­ful. Ches­ter­fi­eld-my ret­ri­ever-ca­me ac­ross the ro­om in two bo­unds. He bit a candy and, I swe­ar to God, Hen­rie O, he was de­ad in fi­ve se­conds." Cha­se ma­na­ged a grim smi­le. "Turns out the­re re­al­ly is a smell of bit­ter al­monds. A stink. An­y­way, the­re was only the one po­iso­ned candy in the box. I had the rest of them tes­ted. I had the box dus­ted for fin­ger­p­rints. Not a sin­g­le damn print on it or in it but mi­ne. Just mi­ne."

  Pain was rep­la­ced by a dog­ged mat­ter-of-fact-ness. "I wor­ked it out. The po­iso­ner had to know I was the only per­son in that ho­use who wo­uld eat a mar­zi­pan. My staff is su­perbly tra­ined. An­yo­ne se­e­ing the box on my desk wo­uld as­su­me it was for me and le­ave it be. The po­iso­ner had to know I was in New York that we­ekend. He must ha­ve be­en in the ho­use on Fri­day or Sa­tur­day-a gu­est, an em­p­lo­yee, or… or so­me­one who li­ved the­re."

  Miranda, of co­ur­se, wo­uld not be a gu­est.

  "I chec­ked my day­bo­ok. Drop­ping in on eit­her Fri­day or Sa­tur­day we­re Va­le­rie St. Vin­cent; my step­son, Has­kell; my son, Ro­ger; and my law­yer, Tre­vor Dun­na­way. Lyle Sted­man was up from At­lan­ta for the we­ekend."

  I ma­de a no­te. "How abo­ut the pe­op­le li­ving or wor­king in the ho­use?"

  "Miranda, of co­ur­se. My sec­re­tary, Bur­ton An­d­rews. You've met him. And the staff that's he­re this we­ek: En­ri­que, my man­ser­vant; his wi­fe, Ro­sa­lia, the ho­use­ke­eper; and Betty, the ma­id."

  "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 has­to 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 pre­mi�
�ses 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 for­got-

  ten 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 tight, and she lo­oked hag­gard. Briskly she as­ked if she co­uld help me, bu­tI 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.

 

‹ Prev Next ›