Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "I'll talk to him." I had, in fact, qu­ite an agen­da in mind. "Why didn't he tell me abo­ut this?"

  "He says it's ir­re­le­vant. He says why the hell wo­uld an­y­body want to en­rich Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons?" We­arily, Tre­vor pus­hed out of his cha­ir, cros­sed to the bar, and splas­hed mo­re scotch in his glass. No so­da this ti­me. "I sa­id, 'Cha­se, stop ac­ting li­ke a god­damn os­t­rich and lo­ok aro­und.' But he ma­de me spell it out. It's so cle­ar a blind per­son can see it. Fi­nal­ly I told him that Lyle Sted­man is a cold-eyed, gre­edy, am­bi­ti­o­us bas­tard with the so­ul of an

  anaconda. I did my go­od de­ed of the day, I told Cha­se Pres­cott the ho­nest-to-God truth, and you know what?"

  I wa­ited for the bit­ter vo­ice to con­ti­nue.

  "He told me to go to hell."

  I po­ked my he­ad in the kit­c­hen do­or.

  Rosalia's he­ad jer­ked my way. A thin bre­ath whis­t­led thro­ugh her te­eth.

  "Has En­ri­que be­en back?"

  She and Betty sho­ok the­ir he­ads, but the fe­ar in Ro­sa­lia's eyes didn't les­sen.

  "It will be all right." Betty tri­ed to so­und che­er­ful. "I've mo­ved our things in­to the ro­omj­i­ext to yo­urs, Airs. Col­lins. Are you su­re -"

  "Positive. Thank you for ta­king ca­re of it." I star­ted out, then pa­used and sa­id ca­su­al­ly, "Oh, Betty, we ne­ed you up­s­ta­irs for a mi­nu­te. In the mu­sic ro­om." I led the way.

  When we re­ac­hed the mu­sic ro­om, I mo­ti­oned for her to en­ter. I fol­lo­wed her in­si­de and clo­sed the do­or. "This won't ta­ke long." Aga­in I was op­ting for a re­as­su­ring vo­ice. I po­in­ted at the *ro­se pe­tit-po­int cha­ir. "Ple­ase sit down."

  The ma­id lo­oked aro­und the empty ro­om, re­ali­zed she'd be­en de­co­yed, and sta­red at me, her eyes an­xi­o­us. She tri­ed to ed­ge past me to the do­or. "I'm

  sorry, ma'am. I've got to set the tab­le for din-

  » ner…

  "I won't ke­ep you long."

  "I ne­ed to get back. En­ri­que'll be the­re pretty so­on."

  Betty was clo­ser to fifty than forty, with a pudgy ab­do­men, too-bro­ad hips, and a fa­ce that might on­ce ha­ve had a can­dy-box pret­ti­ness. But now li­nes of fa­ti­gue clus­te­red at the cor­ners of her eyes and her mo­uth had the per­ma­nent sag of lips that had for­got­ten how to smi­le.

  Not a sexy wo­man. Es­pe­ci­al­ly not to a yo­ung man li­ke Has­kell. What had prom­p­ted Cha­se to sug­gest a tryst bet­we­en Has­kell and Betty? It was lu­dic­ro­us. But it had oc­cur­red to Cha­se when I told him so­me­one had hid­den in the sha­dows la­te last night and re­fu­sed to res­pond to my call. It ma­de me won­der abo­ut Cha­se's per­cep­ti­ons of his step­son. And of this wo­man!

  She was ob­vi­o­usly wary of En­ri­que. Su­rely his ru­le of for­ce didn't ex­tend to her. No, that was un­li­kely. But it's easy eno­ugh for a po­wer­ful per­so­na­lity to cow un­der­lings. If I'd had mo­re ti­me, I wo­uld ha­ve pur­su­ed it, as­ked how he tre­ated her, what kind of over­se­er he was. Be­ca­use I in­ten­ded to be­co­me a big mon­key wrench in En­ri­que's fu­tu­re. But right now I didn't ha­ve ti­me for si­de ex­cur­si­ons.

  "Betty, I want you to re­lax." I co­uld see both of us in the mir­ror be­hind the pi­ano. Betty sto­od ri­gidly, her arms tight to her si­de, her eyes fla­red wi­de. I had a ge­ni­al smi­le on my fa­ce and so, ho­pe­ful­ly, lo­oked mo­re li­ke a mot­her hen than a swo­oping hawk. She con­ti­nu­ed to sta­re at me mu­tely. A ner­vo­us tic flut­te­red her left eye­lid. So much for my ef­fort to so­ot­he.

  Okay. I knew how to play it. Easy qu­es­ti­ons first.

  "Betty, how did you find yo­ur job with Mr. Pres-cott?" This sho­uld put her at ease. It was a long ti­me

  ago and had not­hing to do with the at­tacks on Cha­se. I re­ma­ined bet­we­en her and the do­or.

  "I ca­me to work for Mrs. Lee when Has­kell was born. She bro­ught me with her when she mar­ri­ed Mr. Pres­cott."

  She was ner­vo­us abo­ut ta­king the ti­me, dar­ting oc­ca­si­onal glan­ces at the por­ce­la­in clock on the man­tel, but I had truly to­uc­hed the right chord. She was eager to say how lo­vely Car­rie Lee Pres­cott had be­en and to tell me abo­ut Has­kell as a lit­tle boy.

  Which ma­de Cha­se's sug­ges­ti­on all the mo­re out­ra­ge­o­us and puz­zling.

  I he­ard abo­ut Car­rie's be­a­uty-"Why, you'd ne­ver know she and Miss Va­le­rie we­re sis­ters, they lo­oked so dif­fe­rent. Mrs. Car­rie had dark brown ha­ir and the most be­a­uti­ful skin you ever saw. Mr. Has­kell lo­oks just li­ke his mot­her"-and Has­kell's su­pe­ri­ority at sports - "He can swim li­ke a fish, Mrs. Col­lins. And he's a won­der­ful ten­nis pla­yer"-and how dre­ad­ful it was when Mrs. Car­rie's pla­ne went down. "I was the one had to call Pa­ris to find Mr. Has­kell."

  Then I as­ked a sim­p­le qu­es­ti­on. "Now let's see, Betty, whe­re did you grow up?"»

  Panic fla­red in her eyes. She ope­ned her mo­uth, clo­sed it. Fi­nal­ly, grud­gingly, she mut­te­red, " Way­nes­bo­ro."

  "Does yo­ur fa­mily still li­ve the­re?" I smi­led.

  She wat­c­hed me with sick fas­ci­na­ti­on. It se­emed fo­re­ver be­fo­re she nod­ded, jer­kily, not sa­ying a word.

  I knew I'd un­co­ve­red so­met­hing. But the­re was no po­int in pus­hing her. If only I had a te­lep­ho­ne that re­al­ly wor­ked…

  I shif­ted away from the per­so­nal. "I sup­po­se it's be­en ex­ci­ting be­ing a part of Mr. Pres­cott's staff, get­ting to tra­vel and me­et fa­mo­us pe­op­le." On­ce aga­in I was as ge­ni­al as a talk-show host.

  "Yes, ma'am." She lo­oked lon­gingly to­ward the do­or.

  "As you know, Mr. Pres­cott as­ked me to try to find out who's be­hind the at­tacks on him."

  She lic­ked her pa­le lips.

  "And he wants you to help me."

  She blin­ked at that. "Me? Mr. Pres­cott wants me to help?"

  "Yes. Be­ca­use you ha­ve be­en a part of his ho­use­hold for so many ye­ars, and you may ha­ve se­en pe­op­le do things or he­ard them say things that co­uld tell us if they we­re re­al­ly very angry or up­set with him."

  "Oh, no, no." Betty sho­ok her he­ad vi­olently. "Not me. I don't pay no at­ten­ti­on. I don't ca­re how pe­op­le do. I just cle­an up. And stra­ig­h­ten. And put things whe­re they go. I don't pay no at­ten­ti­on."

  With that she mo­ved ro­ughly past me, her hands scram­b­ling for the do­or, and then she was thro­ugh it and run­ning he­avily to­ward the kit­c­hen.

  Obviously, she had pa­id a gre­at de­al of at­ten­ti­on.

  I skid­ded in­to my ro­om in a hurry. I can sho­wer and dress in se­ven mi­nu­tes. I had twenty mi­nu­tes be­fo­re din­ner.

  The sin­ged bo­ok was still in pla­ce, sec­re­ted among the fol­ders.

  I car­ri­ed it to the tab­le and set­tled down to scan.

  It didn't ta­ke long to fi­gu­re out why Cha­se lo­at­hed this una­ut­ho­ri­zed bi­og­raphy. Jeremy Hub-bard had a ta­lent for une­ar­t­hing the unat­trac­ti­ve, in­c­lu­ding the ac­cu­sa­ti­ons that Cha­se had bril­li­antly en­gi­ne­ered a me­eting with his first wi­fe, Eli­za­beth War­ren, and pur­su­ed her so­lely be­ca­use of her fat­her's sub­s­tan­ti­al me­dia hol­dings; that Cha­se had de­li­be­ra­tely for­ced Eli­za­beth's brot­her Aaron out of the bu­si­ness and re­fu­sed to help him la­ter when he was in fi­nan­ci­al tro­ub­le; that Cha­se had be­en res­pon­sib­le for a mar­ket ru­mor that had drop­ped a com­pe­ti­tor's stock pri­ce un­til Cha­se was ab­le to amass a con­t­rol­ling in­te­rest at an in­c­re­dib­le bar­ga­in; that Cha­se was rut­h­less in jet­ti­so­ning ol­der em­p­lo­ye­es no mat­ter how long and how lo­yal­ly they'd ser­
ved him.

  But the me­at of the bo­ok-to my mind-was a se­ri­es of ugly re­ve­la­ti­ons abo­ut Cha­se's per­so­nal re­la­ti­on­s­hips:

  Chase ne­ver vi­si­ted Eli­za­beth when she was hos­pi­ta­li­zed.

  Chase de­le­ga­ted his sec­re­tary to se­lect bir­t­h­day pre­sents for Ro­ger.

  Chase went to Euro­pe on bu­si­ness when Car­rie was hos­pi­ta­li­zed for a mis­car­ri­age.

  Chase had no ti­me for fri­ends ot­her than tho­se who co­uld help him in a bu­si­ness sen­se.

  Chase didn't at­tend Ro­ger's gra­du­ati­on from col­le­ge.

  There was mo­re in the bo­ok, of co­ur­se: qu­es­ti­onab­le stock de­als, ra­pa­ci­o­us mer­gers, unj­us­ti­fi­ed dis­mis­sals.

  Hubbard was cle­arly a cle­ver, skil­led wri­ter.

  He'd pi­eced to­get­her a se­ri­es of facts and the re­sult was a dam­ning por­t­ra­it.

  I sho­we­red qu­ickly, thin­king abo­ut the re­ve­la­ti­ons in the bo­ok and abo­ut all the con­ver­sa­ti­ons I'd had.

  I knew so much.

  Why co­uldn't I put a fa­ce to Cha­se's at­tac­ker?

  As every new­s­pa­per re­por­ter knows, the­re co­mes a mo­ment when the facts fall in­to pla­ce, when it is cle­ar what mat­ters and what do­esn't. Then the story wri­tes it­self: The le­ad fo­cu­ses on the most im­por­tant ele­ment, the fol­low-up pa­rag­raphs sup­port the sta­te­ment ma­de in the le­ad, and the body of the story am­p­li­fi­es and ex­p­la­ins sub­si­di­ary in­for­ma­ti­on.

  I'd co­un­ted on le­ar­ning a lot from con­ver­sa­ti­ons. I had.

  I'd co­un­ted on le­ar­ning a lot from the bo­ok I'd ret­ri­eved from the in­ci­ne­ra­tor. I had.

  But not­hing jel­led. The mass of da­ta I'd ac­qu­ired was as for­m­less as a spil­led deck of cards.

  I co­uldn't po­int a fin­ger.

  Say I op­ted for Lyle Sted­man as a po­wer-and-mo­ney-hungry exe­cu­ti­ve in­tent on ta­king con­t­rol of Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons.

  A po­iso­ned cho­co­la­te pi­ece?

  Shots from be­hind a tree?

  From this type-A guy with an in­ter­na­ti­onal re­pu­ta­ti­on for na­ked rut­h­les­sness?

  Weren't the­se two at­tempts much mo­re li­kely to be ef­forts by a yo­ung wo­man who­se pas­si­on for a man had tur­ned from lo­ve to ob­ses­si­on?

  Neither of the at­tacks on Cha­se, when you stud-

  led them, se­emed de­sig­ned to suc­ce­ed. Wasn't that per­haps the re­sult of con­f­lic­ting mo­ti­ves in Mi­ran­da's sub­con­s­ci­o­us, the de­si­re to pos­sess war­ring with a lust to hurt?

  For din­ner I cho­se a ro­yal-pur­p­le cot­ton da­mask co­at­d­ress. I li­ke bold co­lors. But I wis­hed it didn't re­mind me of to­night's sky. Tho­ugh the storm bu­il­ding on this is­land in the half-glim­p­sed, not-qu­ite-un­der­s­to­od re­la­ti­ons among its vi­si­tors might well erupt long be­fo­re to­mor­row's storm.

  I clip­ped on over­si­ze pe­arl ear­rings and a two-st­rand pe­arl nec­k­la­ce to match the fa­ux-pe­arl front but­tons.

  I ga­ve myself a last glim­p­se in the mir­ror: My ha­ir was smo­oth-up­s­wept to­nig­ht-and my ma­ke­up even.

  Only my eyes ref­lec­ted the tur­bu­len­ce in my mind.

  It was as if we we­re all bit pla­yers awa­iting our cu­es. Only our host and hos­tess we­re ab­sent.

  His sun­bur­ned fa­ce ob­vi­o­usly pa­in­ful, Tre­vor slum­ped mo­ro­sely in a club cha­ir,* a drink in his hand, ig­no­ring ever­yo­ne. Va­le­rie's lips we­re pin­c­hed. The ac­t­ress's eyes kept dar­ting to­ward the do­or­way. She was lo­oking for tro­ub­le, it was evi­dent in the glit­ter in her eyes, the ra­pid drum­ming of her crim­son na­ils on her cha­ir arm. Ro­ger le­aned aga­inst a bo­ok­ca­se, his back to the ro­om. He held an over­si­ze vo­lu­me open in his hands, but he ne­ver tur­ned a pa­ge. Bur­ton sto­od stiffly by a hu­ge Ori­en­tal scre­en, as if he we­re not a part of the gat­he­ring in the ro­om. The sec­re­tary

  looked ill at ease and even we­edi­er and less im­p­res­si­ve than ever. Has­kell pa­ced by the French do­ors and oc­ca­si­onal­ly ope­ned them to step out on­to the ter­ra­ce. Each ti­me he re­tur­ned to the ro­om his frown was dar­ker. Lyle Sted­man's fi­ery red ha­ir was still fa­intly damp from his sho­wer. He le­aned back in one of the club cha­irs, se­emingly at ease, but his eyes wat­c­hed us all wa­rily.

  Since that re­ve­aling-and per­so­nal­ly up­set­ting- talk with the sun­bur­ned law­yer, I cer­ta­inly ap­pra­ised Lyle in a new light. At the track that mor­ning-and didn't that se­em li­ke a de­ca­de ago?- Lyle had in­di­ca­ted de­ep con­cern over Cha­se's con­fi­den­ce in his abi­lity to re­fi­nan­ce the hu­ge out­s­tan­ding lo­ans. Pres-cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons wo­uld cer­ta­inly ha­ve no dif­fi­culty at all in re­fi­nan­cing-if that Lloyd's of Lon­don po­licy on Cha­se's li­fe pa­id off.

  The French do­or clic­ked aga­in. Has­kell clo­sed it be­hind him. Ro­ger res­hel­ved the bo­ok-an at­las? - and tur­ned to fa­ce the ro­om. Va­le­rie to­yed with the he­avy gold cha­in at her thro­at.

  Of co­ur­se, if that enor­mo­us po­licy pa­id off, it wo­uld only en­han­ce the worth of the ul­ti­ma­te es­ta­te… to the be­ne­fit of al­most ever­yo­ne in the ro­om. How many of them, I won­de­red, knew abo­ut that po­licy? Ac­tu­al­ly, I was qu­ite cer­ta­in that had any per­sons wan­ted to know-and we­re know­led­ge­ab­le abo­ut cor­po­ra­te li­fe-they co­uld easily ha­ve dis­co­ve­red it. That kind of in­for­ma­ti­on is in­c­lu­ded in an­nu­al re­ports and wo­uld most cer­ta­inly ha­ve be­en in­c­lu­ded be­ca­use that was the who­le po­int-to re­as­su­re in­ves­tors.

  The sul­len qu­i­et was be­co­ming op­pres­si­ve, un­na­tu­ral. I had just re­sol­ved to bre­ak it when brisk fo­ot­s­teps so­un­ded in the cen­t­ral hal­lway. Cha­se and Mi­ran­da swept in­to the ro­om.

  It was an en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent Cha­se, af­fab­le, smi­ling, exu­ding go­od hu­mor with a to­uch of em­bar­ras­sment.

  If he was chan­ged, Mi­ran­da was tran­s­for­med. Her fa­ce glo­wed with hap­pi­ness and con­ten­t­ment, her pretty eyes spar­k­led.

  "For God's sa­ke," Cha­se cri­ed, his vo­ice de­ep and vib­rant, "we1 aren't hol­ding a wa­ke, pe­op­le. He­re, now, ever­yo­ne ha­ve a drink. Val, do you want sherry? Hen­rie O, a gin and to­nic?"

  When a lo­gj­am bre­aks, the­re is a rush, a sur­ge of logs, cras­hing and tos­sing and buf­fe­ting one anot­her.

  In just that in­s­tant the two of them ig­ni­ted con­ver­sa­ti­on and it was al­most as if the dre­ad­ful in­ter­lu­de of the mor­ning had ne­ver oc­cur­red.

  I ac­cep­ted my drink-mar­ve­ling aga­in at what Cha­se had dis­co­ve­red of my li­kes and dis­li­kes af­ter so many ye­ars-and ob­ser­ved the sud­denly in­vi­go­ra­ted gat­he­ring, Ro­ger in li­vely con­ver­sa­ti­on with Tre­vor, even Bur­ton un­ben­ding eno­ugh to ac­cept a drink from En­ri­que. I was im­p­res­sed anew with the po­wer of Cha­se's per­so­na­lity, his charm, his per­su­asi­ve­ness, his in­ten­sity, and re­ady, when I had a chan­ce, to tan­g­le with him. Le­ave me a be­qu­est! Not if I co­uld help it. But his ebul­li­ent go­od hu­mor ma­de me smi­le, ir­ri­ta­ted as I was.

  The only non­res­pon­si­ve fa­ce be­lon­ged to Has­kell. He lo­oked to­ward the French do­ors, then squ­ared his

  shoulders and ap­pro­ac­hed his step­fat­her. He wa­ited pa­ti­ently un­til Cha­se fi­nis­hed tal­king to Lyle.

  I strol­led clo­se eno­ugh to he­ar.

  "Chase, we ne­ed to get the hell off this is­land. I chec­ked the we­at­her aga­in-from the Mi­ran­da B.- and they think the hur­ri­ca­ne's pic­king up spe­ed. Righ
t now it's he­ading for Mi­ami. But you know how qu­ick that can chan­ge."

  "I know, I know." And still Cha­se's to­ne was go­od-hu­mo­red. "Ever­y­body, ever­y­body-" He held up his hand.

  The con­ver­sa­ti­ons di­ed away. Every fa­ce tur­ned to­ward Cha­se.

  I will ne­ver for­get him as he sto­od in that ele­gant ro­om that eve­ning. His blue bla­zer was a per­fect fit, of co­ur­se, and his whi­te slacks a dra­ma­tic co­un­ter­po­int. He ne­ver lo­oked bet­ter, an aris­toc­ra­tic fa­ce - sharply de­fi­ned, clas­sic fe­atu­res, a firm chin, full lips. His dark ha­ir had just eno­ugh sil­ver to qu­alify as dis­tin­gu­is­hed, his dark eyes we­re com­man­ding-but, to­night, ple­asant.