Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 11

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Clever," I ag­re­ed, wat­c­hing the drops of wa­ter stri­king the clay. "When a man is rich eno­ugh, the­re's no li­mit to what he can af­ford. So you must be com­p­li­men­ted that a man who co­uld ha­ve any law­yer in Ame­ri­ca as his cor­po­ra­te co­un­sel sho­uld cho­ose you."

  His blond brows ro­se in sur­p­ri­se. "Ne­ver tho­ught abo­ut it. Damn ni­ce thing for you to say. But I don't know if I can lay it to le­gal bril­li­an­ce." His smi­le was di­sar­ming. "Fact of the mat­ter, got to know Cha­se at the club. Golf, you know. Damn fi­ne pla­yer."

  "As I'm su­re you are." I lif­ted my glass. The sel­t­zer was tart and ref­res­hing.

  "Fair, fa­ir. Go­od eno­ugh, I sup­po­se." He fi­nis­hed off the be­er. His open fa­ce, still flus­hed from the ten­nis, was now re­la­xed and go­od-hu­mo­red, that of an un­t­ro­ub­led man on a per­fect ho­li­day. He grin­ned. "Mo­re to the po­int, fel­lows li­ke Cha­se want to ha­ve a lit­tle bet on each ho­le. I ne­ver win too of­ten."

  I was se­e­ing a su­perb per­for­man­ce. The­re was mo­re to this man than ami­ab­le bon­ho­mie, but he'd had ye­ars of prac­ti­ce at pro­vi­ding what he sen­sed his audi­en­ce wan­ted. One ses­si­on with me wasn't go­ing to prick that fa­ca­de, let alo­ne des­t­roy it.

  I co­uld try.

  "What hap­pens to Cha­se's es­ta­te when he di­es?"

  The easy lo­ok fled. He sat up stra­ig­h­ter and lo­oked at me sharply. He was un­s­mi­ling. He no lon­ger lo­oked li­ke a law­yer on a ho­li­day. He lo­oked li­ke a law­yer. "Why do you ask that? That has not­hing to do with the bo­ok you're re­se­ar­c­hing."

  "No, per­haps not. Let's say I'm in­te­res­ted be­ca­use the pro­vi­si­ons of a will re­ve­al an enor­mo­us amo­unt abo­ut the re­la­ti­on­s­hip of the tes­ta­tor with the le­ga­te­es." I met his ga­ze con­fi­dently.

  "But this isn't that kind of bi­og­raphy, is it? This is go­ing to be po­si­ti­ve, isn't it?" ^

  "Excuse me?" He co­uldn't ha­ve mis­sed the frost in my vo­ice.

  It didn't bot­her him a whit. He com­po­un­ded the in­sult. "Lo­ok, he's hi­ring you to wri­te him up. Pro­bably pa­ying a go­od bit - "

  "That's not the way it works, Tre­vor. I've ag­re­ed to wri­te a bi­og­raphy. In fact, I've al­re­ady had ex­p­res­si­ons of in­te­rest from se­ve­ral pub­lis­hers. My agent will pro­bably ha­ve an auc­ti­on. But the po­int is: I

  write what I find. If it's po­si­ti­ve, so be it. If it isn't… I'm no hi­red hand. Which brings me back to my ori­gi­nal qu­es­ti­on: What hap­pens to Cha­se's es­ta­te - "

  That's when the shots rang out.

  6

  It galls me to ad­mit it, but I

  was the last to re­ach the po­int. Age can be mas­te­red to a gre­at ex­tent, but my se­ven-mi­nu­te-mi­le days are long sin­ce past. So­me­ti­mes I con­so­le myself that not many wo­men my age still jog, even if at the pa­ce of a sum­mer-som­no­lent ar­ma­dil­lo. And so­me­ti­mes I just swe­ar bit­terly and try to ig­no­re the ac­he in my right knee and the stitch in my si­de.

  I'll ne­ver for­get the sight that met my eyes.

  Everyone known to be on the is­land was the­re ex­cept for the ho­use­ke­eper and the ma­id.

  It was easy to see what had hap­pe­ned.

  The for­ce of the shots had flung the easel on­to the sto­ne flo­or. Dra­wing the eye at on­ce and ir­re­sis­tibly we­re the rag­ged-ed­ged bul­let ho­les-th­ree of them - al­most at the mid­po­int of the can­vas. At the he­ight of the ar­tist's he­ad.

  The sur­fa­ce of the sto­ne flo­or told its story, too. A long, scuf­fed swath thro­ugh the drif­ted pi­ne ne­ed­les and li­ve oak le­aves mar­ked whe­re Cha­se had thrown him­self down. He had scrab­bled to sa­fety be­hind the shed, his back to the so­und. That des­pe­ra­te crab­li­ke scut­tle had cost him. Blo­od stre­aked his el­bows and kne­es; dirt sta­ined his whi­te shorts and po­lo shirt.

  Miranda clung to one arm, mur­mu­ring his na­me over and over, te­ars co­ur­sing down her lo­vely fa­ce.

  Chase ig­no­red her. His chest he­aved li­ke that of a man who had run a long dis­tan­ce. His fa­ce was red and stric­ken. It was al­so im­p­la­cably angry.

  "Someone shot at me."

  Enrique sha­ded his eyes and lo­oked out at the choppy wa­ter. "Hun­ters, sir. Po­ac­hers. The is­land's pos­ted, of co­ur­se. But so­me pe­op­le - "

  "Hunters?" Tre­vor bro­ke in, his blue eyes skep­ti­cal. "We'd ha­ve he­ard a bo­at. Cha­se, did you he­ar a bo­at? Did you he­ar an­y­t­hing? Crac­k­ling in the un­der­b­rush, fo­ot­s­teps? Hun­ters ma­ke no­ise."

  Chase jer­ked away from Mi­ran­da, too angry to be pa­ti­ent with her te­ars. He lo­oked to­ward the dark mass of fo­li­age. It ap­pe­ared even dar­ker and mo­re som­ber and im­pe­net­rab­le from the brig­h­t­ness of the po­int with the open At­lan­tic on one si­de, the so­und on the ot­her.

  "Nothing. Not a sin­g­le so­und."

  "But that me­ans…" Mi­ran­da hic­cu­ped and rub­bed her red­de­ned eyes, lo­oking be­reft and ho­pe­les­sly chil­d­li­ke.

  Chase lo­oked at each fa­ce in turn, his eyes pro­bing, chal­len­ging. "Yes, it me­ans so­me­one crept up and aimed a gun at me-at my hack-and shot-and the

  only re­ason I'm ali­ve is that most pe­op­le don't ha­ve any idea how hard it is to hit a tar­get. The for­ce of the ex­p­lo­si­on jerks the gun un­less it's held rock-ste­ady. One of you didn't know that."

  "This is ab­so­lu­tely the li­mit."

  Valerie's pro­test was icy, out­ra­ged. She tos­sed her pla­ti­num he­ad. "I've be­en in­sul­ted ever sin­ce I ar­ri­ved. But I re­fu­se to be ac­cu­sed of mur­der. I'm le­aving. Right now."

  She tur­ned and stal­ked ac­ross the sto­ne flo­or.

  Chase cros­sed his arms over his chest. "I didn't know you we­re a chan­nel-re­ady swim­mer, Val."

  That stop­ped her. She whir­led to fa­ce him. Her be­a­uti­ful eyes bla­zed. "The bo­at will ta­ke me to sho­re. Now."

  "No. No one's go­ing an­y­w­he­re. Not un­til I say they can go." Cha­se smi­led grimly. "Unless they wish to swim."

  "Wait a mi­nu­te, Dad." Ro­ger's vo­ice was con­ci­li­atory. "You're up­set. Of co­ur­se if Val wants to go ho­me, we '11 ha­ve to - "

  "No." A ve­in pul­sed in Cha­se's tem­p­le.

  "But, Dad-"

  "Shut up, Ro­ger." Cha­se's bre­at­hing was easi­er now. He squ­in­ted at the wo­ods. "Who got he­re first?"

  There was an in­s­tant of une­asy si­len­ce.

  Enrique's fa­ce was ex­p­res­si­on­less. "I think I did, Mr. Pres­cott."

  Chase fo­cu­sed on him. "Who ca­me next?"

  Enrique lo­oked to­ward Va­le­rie.

  The ac­t­ress clen­c­hed her hands. Her eyes smol­de­red. "Wa­it a mi­nu­te now, wa­it just a mi­nu­te. Is

  this a put-up job?" Fu­ri­o­usly she jab­bed a fin­ger. "You we­re he­re when I ca­me!"

  Burton An­d­rews step­ped back as if she'd struck him. "I didn't say I wasn't," he stam­me­red. "I he­ard the shots - I was over by the track and I ca­me as fast as I co­uld."

  Near the track? Why hadn't Tre­vor and I se­en him? Of co­ur­se, the­re we­re all tho­se we­eping wil­lows…

  Chase jer­ked his he­ad to­ward me. "Okay, Hen­rie O, get this down."

  I'm not fond of bar­ked in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons, and I ser­ve as no man's scri­be. But the­se we­re not nor­mal cir­cum­s­tan­ces. I got out my no­te­bo­ok.

  The or­der of ar­ri­val sor­ted out li­ke this:

  1. En­ri­que

  2. Bur­ton

  3. Va­le­rie

  4. Lyle

  5. Tre­vor

  6. Has­kell

  7. Ro­ger

  8. Mi­ran­da<
br />
  9. Me

  "Enrique, check on Ro­sa­lia and Betty." Cha­se po­in­ted up the path. "Then co­me back."

  Miranda ga­ve a lit­tle mo­an. "Oh, God, do you think so­met­hing's hap­pe­ned to them? Oh, my God, what's go­ing on he­re?" Her hands twis­ted to­get­her.

  Chase shot an ir­ri­ta­ted lo­ok at his wi­fe. "Not­hing's hap­pe­ned to them. If we had a cel­lar, that's

  where Ro­sa­lia wo­uld be. Hi­ding. She do­esn't lo­ok for tro­ub­le. En­ri­que will find them. Co­me he­re, Bur­ton."

  The sec­re­tary ed­ged to­ward Cha­se, re­luc­tan­ce evi­dent in every li­ne of his body.

  "Christ, man," Cha­se snap­ped, "what's wrong with you?"

  "No- nothing." Bur­ton sta­red at Cha­se with tho­se stric­ken-de­er eyes. The sec­re­tary had the di­ed-aga­in at­ti­tu­de of the born lo­ser. He'd be­en bla­med so many ti­mes for mis­ta­kes that we­ren't his that his auto­ma­tic res­pon­se was go­ing to be "I didn't do it."

  Chase un­der­s­to­od that. He spo­ke slowly, pa­ti­ently. "Re­lax, Bur­ton. Think back. You he­ard the shots, then what did you do?"

  Burton swal­lo­wed con­vul­si­vely. His eyes sle­wed to­ward the wo­ods, then jer­ked back to Cha­se. "Well, I was up ne­ar the track. Sort of. But clo­ser to the wo­ods. I was -" He shot anot­her ner­vo­us glan­ce at Cha­se. "I was ta­king a qu­ick bre­ak, a lit­tle walk, be­fo­re I got back to work. But I was thin­king abo­ut the ap­po­in­t­ments for next we­ek, get­ting the ma­te­ri­al- "

  Chase ma­na­ged not to bark, but just ba­rely. "Get on with it. You we­re ta­king a walk. What hap­pe­ned?"

  "Well" - Burton's ton­gue flic­ked over his lo­wer lip - "I wasn't pa­ying a lot of at­ten­ti­on when bang! I he­ard the shots and then I he­ard so­me­one run­ning- it must ha­ve be­en En­ri­que-so I star­ted to run, too. I ca­me up the path and you we­re just get­ting up from

  behind the shed and En­ri­que was hur­rying to­ward

  ,, you.

  "Didyou pass an­yo­ne on the path? See an­yo­ne?"

  Chase fum­b­led for a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef and dab­bed at his blo­ody kne­es.

  Miranda to­ok the squ­are of li­nen from him and gently to­uc­hed the de­ep scrat­c­hes.

  "No." Bur­ton's vo­ice wa­ve­red. "I don't think so."

  "You did or you didn't." Cha­se win­ced and ro­ughly snat­c­hed the han­d­ker­c­hi­ef from Mi­ran­da.

  "No, no, I didn't see an­yo­ne un­til I got he­re and saw you and En­ri­que."

  I ha­te to see ti­me was­ted. "Cha­se, ob­vi­o­usly Bur­ton didn't see an­yo­ne. The gun­man wo­uld im­me­di­ately ta­ke co­ver when he he­ard us co­ming, then, at the ap­prop­ri­ate mo­ment, slip on­to the tra­il, bre­ak in­to a trot, and ar­ri­ve he­re at the plat­form to jo­in in the ge­ne­ral hue and cry."

  A crunch of fo­ot­s­teps so­un­ded from the tan­g­le of shrub­bery and wo­ods. No one sa­id an­y­t­hing un­til En­ri­que emer­ged from the tre­es.

  The va­let re­por­ted to Cha­se that Ro­sa­lia and Betty had im­me­di­ately loc­ked them­sel­ves in the pantry af­ter Betty ran in from out­si­de and told the ho­use­ke­eper abo­ut the shots.

  "Where was Betty? Why was she out­si­de?" I de­man­ded.

  Enrique ig­no­red me. He kept lo­oking at Cha­se, his poc­k­mar­ked fa­ce im­pas­si­ve.

  Chase to­ok it up. "Whe­re wcm Betty?"

  "The sto­re­ro­om. Ro­sa­lia sent her for so­me sup­pli­es." En­ri­que's to­ne was just short of tru­cu­lent. "I told them to get back to work. Lunch will be ser­ved on ti­me."

  Lunch. Oh, yes. Pe­op­le are born. They die, na­tu­ral­ly or not, and ever­y­day ro­uti­nes con­ti­nue.

  "Good eno­ugh." But Cha­se was not in­te­res­ted in what his em­p­lo­ye­es we­re do­ing. His eyes we­re on me. "Hen­rie O's right. It do­esn't mat­ter when an­y­body ar­ri­ved or didn't ar­ri­ve. Dam­mit, Hen­rie O, what doe*) mat­ter?"

  "A tho­ro­ugh se­arch of the pre­mi­ses and pri­va­te in­ter­vi­ews with ever­yo­ne on the is­land to pin­po­int the lo­ca­ti­on of each per­son at the ti­me of the sho­oting. That's a job for the po­li­ce. I've got a mo­bi­le pho­ne and-"

  "No po­li­ce." Cha­se's vo­ice slas­hed thro­ugh mi­ne.

  I lo­oked at Cha­se an in­s­tant too long. By the ti­me I scan­ned the ot­her wat­c­hing fa­ces, it was too la­te. If Cha­se's an­no­un­ce­ment af­for­ded re­li­ef to an­yo­ne, I'd mis­sed it. All I saw on each vi­sa­ge was sur­p­ri­se and puz­zle­ment.

  "Hey, Cha­se, what's the de­al? So­me­body tri­es to mur­der you, of co­ur­se we've got to call in the cops." Lyle Sted­man's gra­vel­ly vo­ice bet­ra­yed his im­pa­ti­en­ce.

  "No cops." Cha­se's mo­uth set in a grim, de­ter­mi­ned li­ne.

  "Dad, wa­it a mi­nu­te, think a mi­nu­te." Ro­ger spo­ke qu­i­etly, gently. His fa­ce was still whi­te with con­cern.

  "The po­li­ce?" Mi­ran­da's vo­ice was fa­int.

  Chase held up both hands. The vo­ices qu­i­eted. "This isn't the way I tho­ught it wo­uld turn out, but may­be it's bet­ter to put it all on the tab­le. One of you - one of you - " He stop­ped and sta­red at his fa­mily and staff.

  Miranda hug­ged her arms aga­inst her slen­der

  body; her eyes we­re hu­ge and ter­ri­fi­ed, li­ke a child wa­king de­ep in the night.

  Haskell's dark go­od lo­oks might ha­ve be­en car­ved out of ma­ho­gany. He wat­c­hed Cha­se with an un­win­king ga­ze.

  Roger step­ped to­ward his fat­her, his hand out­s­t­ret­c­hed. If Cha­se saw the ges­tu­re, he didn't res­pond. Ro­ger's hand fell. His fa­ce scre­wed up in pa­in.

  Valerie's smo­oth, un­li­ned co­un­te­nan­ce didn't al­ter, of co­ur­se. Per­haps that was an un­sung ad­van­ta­ge of fa­ce-lifts. It wo­uld ta­ke a hell of a crystal ball to re­ad that lady's tho­ughts.

  Burton lo­oked li­ke a rab­bit ca­ught in a trap. I won­de­red if the sec­re­tary was go­ing to fa­int.

  Lyle Sted­man's gre­en eyes nar­ro­wed.

  Trevor Dun­na­way was sha­king his he­ad slowly. All tra­ce of his usu­al go­od hu­mor had fled.

  "One of you" - Cha­se's vo­ice was qu­i­et, but the­re was ste­el in his eyes - "tri­ed to kill me to­day. One of you has tri­ed be­fo­re."

  His up­ra­ised hands kept them qu­i­et.

  "No. Lis­ten to me. That's why I in­vi­ted each of you he­re. All of you-ex­cept Hen­rie O." His fa­ce sof­te­ned. "Hen­rie O's the best in­ves­ti­ga­tor I've ever known. She's smar­ter than three car­lo­ads of cops. That's why when so­me­body tri­ed to po­ison me, I tho­ught of her." The lo­ok he ga­ve me was as war­ming as an em­b­ra­ce.

  Not so the res­pon­se from the ot­hers. The­ir com­bi­ned glan­ces we­re al­most a physi­cal as­sa­ult. Dis­t­rust. Sus­pi­ci­on. An­ger. Je­alo­usy. All aimed at me.

  "Poison? What the hell are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  Trevor lo­oked li­ke a bank pre­si­dent who­se bank has just be­en ta­ken over by the FDIC.

  "Poison!" Mi­ran­da's vo­ice sho­ok. "When? Whe­re? Oh, Cha­se, I knew so­met­hing was ter­ribly wrong, I knew it!"

  Roger sta­red at his fat­her and mo­ut­hed "Po­ison," but no so­und ca­me.

  Chase im­pas­si­vely des­c­ri­bed the let­hal candy and the dog bo­un­ding ac­ross the ro­om. "His body ar­c­hed. He tri­ed to bre­at­he. I wat­c­hed him die."

  "That's sic­ke­ning, ab­so­lu­tely sic­ke­ning." One hand clut­c­hed dra­ma­ti­cal­ly at Va­le­rie's thro­at. She shud­de­red. Then her eyes nar­ro­wed and her per­fect che­eks fla­med. "How da­re you sug­gest I wo­uld do such a thing! I'll sue you, Cha­se, un­less you wit­h­d­raw that ac­cu­sa­ti­on."

  "There is no ac­cu­sa­ti­on, Val. Yet. You are s
imply one of se­ve­ral who co­uld ha­ve pla­ced the candy in my study." Cha­se lo­oked aro­und the po­int. "One of you," he sa­id simply. "That's why you're all he­re. And he­re you are all go­ing to stay un­til Hen­rie O fi­gu­res out which one of you did it, which hand fil­led that candy with cya­ni­de, which hand held the gun. She's go­ing to find out the an­s­wer."

 

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