Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Rosalia?" I cal­led as I step­ped in­si­de.

  My eyes wi­de­ned.

  The me­at cle­aver in Ro­sa­lia's hand wob­bled. She held it over her he­ad, po­ised to at­tack. Betty sto­od be­hind her, pres­sed aga­inst the si­de of the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor.,

  "It's all right," I sa­id qu­ickly. "I just want to talk to you, Betty. I ne­ed yo­ur help in trying to find out who kil­led Mr. Pres­cott."

  The lights in the kit­c­hen flic­ke­red, then ca­me on.

  I hadn't told En­ri­que to turn the ge­ne­ra­tor on, but he'd ob­vi­o­usly de­ci­ded to do so. Go­od. Our si­tu­ati­on was frig­h­t­ful eno­ugh wit­ho­ut the ad­ded dis­com­fort of dark and sha­dowy ro­oms.

  Perhaps it was the lights that re­as­su­red Ro­sa­lia.

  The kit­c­hen on­ce aga­in was an oasis of nor­malcy, the spar­k­ling cle­an­li­ness of the ti­led wor­k­s­pa­ces, the shiny cop­per bot­toms of the pans han­ging abo­ve a cen­t­ral wor­k­s­ta­ti­on, the ho­mely fa­mi­li­arity of a suds-fil­led sink. He­re, it was hard to be­li­eve a man had be­en mur­de­red a tho­usand fe­et away. Slowly Ro­sa­lia lo­we­red her arm.

  "I do not know what to do," the ho­use­ke­eper be­gan apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly. "Ten­go mi­edo. Who will co­me, what will hap­pen? What to­ok Mr. Pres­cott? En­ri­que say he jump in­to tub and die. But that is not right. Mr. Pres­cott is not a yo­ung man, but he is a strong man. And so­me­one shot the gun at him. I am af­ra­id."

  "We are all af­ra­id, Ro­sa­lia, and you are wi­se to arm yo­ur­self. You and Betty must stay to­get­her. That will ke­ep you sa­fe." I put down the box on the cen­t­ral wor­k­s­ta­ti­on.

  Her jet- black eyes re­gar­ded me sor­row­ful­ly. "Air. Pres­cott, he wasn't alo­ne."

  It was a twist of the kni­fe in a wo­und that might ne­ver he­al.

  No, Cha­se hadn't be­en alo­ne, and I had be­en so con­fi­dent he wo­uld be sa­fe so long as he was in sight of ot­hers.

  "No." I ma­na­ged to ke­ep my vo­ice even. "He wasn't alo­ne, but he was the vic­tim of a trap, a very cle­ver trap plan­ned and put in­to ope­ra­ti­on Thur­s­day night. Let me show you." I ges­tu­red for them to co­me clo­se.

  They ap­pro­ac­hed he­si­tantly.

  I res­ted my hands on top of the box. "This is very im­por­tant. I want you both to lo­ok-and es­pe­ci­al­ly

  you, Bet­ty-and tell me if you've ever se­en this be­fo­re." I ope­ned the box.

  It was not a re­mar­kab­le por­tab­le ha­ir dryer ex­cept for its si­ze. I tra­vel with one that is scar­cely lar­ger than my hand. I hadn't used it he­re be­ca­use the gu­est bat­h­ro­om con­ta­ined a ha­ir dryer. That, too, was a small one. This one, ma­de of pa­le gray plas­tic, was hu­ge, the mo­tor ca­sing a go­od fi­ve in­c­hes in cir­cum­fe­ren­ce, the noz­zle fo­ur in­c­hes long with a two-inch di­ame­ter. Its only dis­tin­gu­is­hing mark was a ha­ir­li­ne crack that ran from a wed­ge-sha­ped chip in the rim to mid­way down the length of the noz­zle.

  Rosalia spo­ke im­me­di­ately. "No. I ha­ve ne­ver se­en it, Mrs. Col­lins."

  Betty sta­red at it with a sick fas­ci­na­ti­on. "That is what kil­led Mr. Pres­cott?"

  "Yes." I glan­ced aro­und, spot­ted a pad by the te­lep­ho­ne. It was easi­er to ex­p­la­in with a dra­wing. I drew the hot tub and its in­te­ri­or steps. "The ha­ir dryer was ta­ped aga­inst the right si­de of the in­te­ri­or steps" - I mar­ked an X the­re - "then the cord, ta­ped at fi­ve-inch in­ter­vals-wa­ter­p­ro­of ta­pe, of co­ur­se - ca­me up the si­de of the tub, cur­led over the top, and ran down the red­wo­od si­ding in»t­he sha­dow of the ex­te­ri­or steps. The ta­pe was tightly fas­te­ned at the bot­tom, then hid­den un­der the mon­key-grass bor­der un­til it was plug­ged in­to an out­let."

  The wet dryer re­eked of chlo­ri­ne. Wo­uld I ever smell chlo­ri­ne wit­ho­ut a sic­ke­ning lurch of me­mory?

  "The bub­bles," Betty sa­id fa­intly.

  I un­der­s­to­od what she me­ant and on­ce aga­in re­cog­ni­zed the wor­king of a shrewd mind.

  Rosalia sta­red at Betty, puz­zled.

  "That's right," I ag­re­ed. "Mr. Pres­cott didn't see the ha­ir dryer down the­re-no one who used the tub saw it-be­ca­use the wa­ter jets kept the sur­fa­ce mo­ving." Bub­bles, lots of bub­bles. I wo­uld ne­ver lis­ten to Don Ho's cham­pag­ne mu­sic aga­in with ple­asu­re. "I don't know if the ha­ir dryer wo­uld ha­ve be­en no­ti­ced, even with the jets tur­ned off, be­ca­use this is a de­ep tub-fi­ve fe­et, I think-and the steps pro­bably cast a sha­dow. In any event, he ob­vi­o­usly didn't no­ti­ce."

  Betty's fin­gers pic­ked at her po­lis­hed-cot­ton uni­form skirt. "I can't say for su­re. But I saw a ha­ir dryer just li­ke this one. Gray and big. I left it in the su­it­ca­se be­ca­use we ha­ve ha­ir dryers in all the bat­h­ro­oms."

  God, was it go­ing to be this easy? I co­uldn't be­li­eve my go­od for­tu­ne. "Who­se su­it­ca­se, Betty?" I as­ked qu­i­etly.

  Her hands clen­c­hed. She knew how much this mat­te­red. Her an­s­wer was al­most a whis­per. "Mr. Dun­na­way's."

  Thunder bo­omed.

  1 pas­sed Lyle in the up­s­ta­irs cen­t­ral hall, spraw­led in a crim­son silk lo­ve­se­at. He still wor­ked the pho­ne, his red ha­ir still un­b­rus­hed, his bony, un­s­ha­ven fa­ce in­tent. He ig­no­red me as I wal­ked by. I saw no one el­se. Eerily eno­ugh, in con­t­rast to the ca­tac­l­y­s­mic ro­ar of the storm, the cre­aking and gro­aning of the ho­use, the clat­ter and bang from out­si­de as tre­es cras­hed and deb­ris hur­t­led thro­ugh the air, the in­si­de of the ho­use -all the lights bla­zing-was to­tal­ly qu­i­et. When I re­ac­hed my ro­om and step­ped in­si­de, I felt li­ke a

  ghost re­tur­ning to an ages-dis­tant ha­unt. My co­vers we­re thrown back, just as I'd left them when the ban­ging shut­ter awa­ke­ned me early that mor­ning. The­re was the no­te­bo­ok-with its list of in­for­ma­ti­on to se­ek-that I'd drop­ped when the Mi­ran­da B. ex­p­lo­ded.

  I pla­ced the box with the ha­ir dryer on the desk and pic­ked up the pad.

  Now I co­uld ne­ver ask Cha­se why Tre­vor Dun-na­way wasn't among tho­se his pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ve in­ves­ti­ga­ted in re­gard to the vi­ci­o­us gos­sip sup­pli­ed to the aut­hor of The Man Who Picks Pre­si­dents.

  Betty had iden­ti­fi­ed the de­adly ha­ir dryer as Tre­vor's.

  But Tre­vor and I had sto­od to­get­her and he­ard the shots fi­red at Cha­se on Fri­day mor­ning.

  Surely we we­ren't de­aling with two se­pa­ra­te mur­der plans-the sho­oting and the elec­t­ro­cu­ti­on?

  I co­uldn't be­li­eve that.

  Though they cer­ta­inly we­re en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent met­hods. We­ren't they?

  I pul­led off my soggy clot­hes, dra­ped them in the bat­h­ro­om. I lo­oked lon­gingly at the sho­wer. It wo­uld be won­der­ful to get warm.,

  Like an ec­ho in my mind, I he­ard Cha­se sa­ying: "I'm go­ing to get warm first."

  I yan­ked a to­wel from the he­ated rack-oh, God, the lu­xu­ri­es on this is­land-and briskly rub­bed the warm, soft cot­ton aga­inst my chil­led body. I to­ok ti­me to dry my ha­ir, then hur­ri­ed back in­to the bed­ro­om, slip­ped in­to a fresh blo­use, slacks, and socks. But I put my soggy ten­nis sho­es back on. They might be wet, but they af­for­ded a go­od de­al mo­re trac­ti­on

  than le­at­her-so­led sho­es. They wo­uld work bet­ter if I had to scram­b­le in­to a res­cue he­li­cop­ter or bo­at. Not that a bo­at or he­li­cop­ter co­uld re­ach us now. No tran­s­port ma­de by man co­uld sur­vi­ve the­se bat­te­ring winds.

  But all of this me­rely oc­cu­pi­ed the pe­ri­me­ter of my mind. I was trying to sort out what had hap­pe­ned and what I sho­uld do. But I co­uldn't
get past the fact that not­hing jibed.

  I pic­ked up a brush, swiftly brus­hed my ha­ir, and be­gan to pin it up.

  If the mur­de­rer had put the ha­ir dryer in the hot tub on Thur­s­day night, why hadn't Cha­se be­en elec­t­ro­cu­ted when he jum­ped in the tub on Fri­day mor­ning?

  Had the hot tub be­en in­ten­ded me­rely as a bac­kup plan in ca­se the sho­oting at the po­int fa­iled - as it had?

  How did the des­t­ruc­ti­on of the Mi­ran­da B. fit in?

  Its so­le ef­fect-so far as I co­uld see-was to ma­ro­on ever­yo­ne on the is­land with a hur­ri­ca­ne ap­pro­ac­hing.

  Surely that was the act of a mad­man. Was the­re a sin­g­le per­son on this is­land who didn't un­der­s­tand the gra­vity of re­ma­ining on this sli­ver of low-lying land in the path of a hu­ge storm? Was kil­ling Cha­se worth ris­king the mur­de­rer's own li­fe?

  Could the sho­oting on the po­int and the bo­oby-trap­ped hot tub ha­ve be­en in­de­pen­dent ef­forts? Mur­de­rer One and Mur­de­rer Two? And how abo­ut the po­iso­ned candy? Who got cre­dit for that?

  As a yo­ung po­li­ce fri­end of mi­ne wo­uld ur­ge: Get re­aL

  But we­ren't the­se ef­forts so dif­fe­rent that they ar­gu­ed in­de­pen­dent ori­gins?

  I jam­med a last pin in­to my up­s­wept ha­ir, re­ac­hed for my lip­s­tick.

  I sho­ok my he­ad at my ref­lec­ti­on in the mir­ror. My eyes nar­ro­wed. "No." I sa­id it alo­ud. "Hell, no. Candy and a gun and elec­t­ri­city. But they all ha­ve one com­mon de­no­mi­na­tor: an ef­fort to re­ma­in un­se­en and un­k­nown by the­ir obj­ect."

  That still didn't ex­p­la­in to me, tho­ugh, the gre­atest ano­maly. Why hadn't that de­adly ha­ir dryer be­en plug­ged in when Cha­se jum­ped in­to the tub Fri­day mor­ning?

  If I un­der­s­to­od that, I knew I wo­uld un­der­s­tand ever­y­t­hing.

  The ho­use sho­ok. The wind thud­ded aga­inst it li­ke the fren­zi­ed ho­of­be­ats of a tho­usand ru­na­way hor­ses.

  I lo­oked at the win­dows, opa­que with ra­in. Yes, I wo­uld un­der­s­tand ever­y­t­hing… ex­cept the tho­ught pro­ces­ses of the mur­de­ro­us per­son who had stran­ded us on this is­land.

  How long wo­uld Cha­se's be­a­uti­ful ho­use wit­h­s­tand this in­hu­man bat­te­ring? I pic­tu­red Has­kell's tiny, in­sub­s­tan­ti­al raft, ca­ught in a ma­el­s­t­rom of fo­am and spe­aring ra­in. Oh, Htwkell, de­ar God I ho­pe you 've ma­de Land. Ple­ase, God. But it did no go­od to ima­gi­ne his fa­te.

  I tur­ned, grab­bed up the soggy car­d­bo­ard box. Whi­le the­re was ti­me left, I wo­uld use it.

  Even over the ro­ar of the storm I co­uld he­ar the cras­hing chords from the mu­sic ro­om when I step­ped in­to the hall. I won­de­red if Va­le­rie was trying to drown out the shri­ek of the wind, or if she was simply de­ter­mi­ned to spend what might be her last ho­urs im­mer­sed in the tran­s­cen­dent glory of Rac­h­ma­ni­noff, ca­ught up and tran­s­for­med be­yond fe­ar, avidly suc­king out of her li­fe its last cre­ati­ve en­de­avor.

  I stop­ped at the do­or clo­sest to the cen­t­ral hall and knoc­ked.

  I was lif­ting my hand to knock aga­in when the do­or ope­ned.

  I lo­oked up at Tre­vor Dun­na­way.

  There was only a tra­ce of the cos­se­ted, com­for­tab­le, self-as­su­red man I'd met at tea two days be­fo­re. His thick blond ha­ir was ne­atly com­bed, his pa­le pink sports shirt crisp, his whi­te cot­ton slacks im­ma­cu­la­te, but he sta­red at me hol­low-eyed, his han­d­so­me fa­ce slack with he­ar­t­sick fe­ar.

  It told me one fact, and I was hungry for facts: This man hadn't blown up the Mi­ran­da B. This man knew what co­uld hap­pen in hur­ri­ca­nes.

  I smel­led bo­ur­bon.

  I lo­oked at the glass in his hand.

  He folio- wed my glan­ce, held up the tum­b­ler, half-full of am­ber li­qu­id. "Want so­me?" His vo­ice was just a lit­tle slur­red.

  "No, thanks. Can we talk for a mi­nu­te?" I shif­ted the box to my hip.

  He blin­ked, then shrug­ged. "Su­re. Co­me on in. What do you want to talk abo­ut? Mo­dern art? Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons in the next cen­tury? The won­ders of elec­t­ri­city?" He sho­ok his he­ad vi­olently. "Not funny,

  Trevor. God­damn not funny." He stum­b­led to a li­nen-up­hol­s­te­red set­tee with a gre­en and tan bac­k­g­ro­und of mar­s­h­land and ge­ese flying over­he­ad. He hun­c­hed in one cor­ner and lif­ted the glass.

  I cros­sed to the co­uch and plum­ped the box down be­si­de him.

  He swal­lo­wed the bo­ur­bon and cho­ked a lit­tle.

  I flip­ped open the lid. "Ta­ke a lo­ok."

  The law­yer wo­uldn't turn his he­ad. He held the tum­b­ler in both hands and sta­red at the scant half-inch of bo­ur­bon re­ma­ining. Ab­ruptly, he dow­ned the rest of it. "I don't ha­ve to lo­ok at the god­damn thing. I saw it in the god­damn hot tub."

  "I want to know if you've ever se­en it be­fo­re."

  Slowly he lif­ted his he­ad. "You'd ma­ke a gre­at lit­tle pro­se­cu­ting at­tor­ney, lady. And if I we­re my cli­ent, I'd tell me to ke­ep my god­damn mo­uth shut. But what the hell dif­fe­ren­ce do­es it ma­ke? We're all go­ing to die." He lo­oked to­ward the win­dows. "I won­der what will bre­ak first, the wings or the cen­t­ral part of the ho­use? May­be it's ti­me we went to our ni­ce hi­dey-ho­le with the fo­od and the flas­h­lights." But he ma­de no mo­ve to go.

  I wasn't go­ing to be def­lec­ted. "The ha­ir dryer. It's yo­urs?"

  "Mine all right. I re­cog­ni­zed it. Stu­pid lit­tle crack on the noz­zle. I drop­ped it when I was in San Fran­cis­co last we­ek. Crac­ked it. Still wor­ked fi­ne." He lo­oked fa­intly sick. "God, yes, it works. Wor­ked. Kil­led Cha­se, didn't it?" His mo­uth qu­ive­red. "So­me­body to­ok it and used it to kill him. God, a ha­ir dryer." He wasn't too num­bed to be in­dig­nant. "Why me? Why the hell me?"

  "When did you see it last?" The win­dow be­hind the co­uch rat­tled li­ke cas­ta­nets.

  He blin­ked. "Dam­ned if I know. I've be­en trying to think. Ma­id un­pac­ked my stuff. I didn't ne­ed it, got one in the bat­h­ro­om. The hell of it is, I don't know. I ne­ver lo­oked in my su­it­ca­se - not till I ca­me back he­re from that damn tub and went to the clo­set and it wasn't the­re." He blin­ked aga­in. "I knew it wasn't the­re, I'd just se­en it. But I had to be su­re." Wit­ho­ut war­ning, he lur­c­hed to his fe­et and sham­b­led ac­ross the ro­om. He pic­ked up the open bot­tle of bo­ur­bon on the dres­ser, po­ured anot­her slug. He dra­ined the glass and sta­red at me ow­lishly. "Why ta­ke my damn ha­ir dryer?"

  It was a go­od qu­es­ti­on. But not the most im­por­tant qu­es­ti­on that ne­eded an­s­we­ring.

  12

  The se­cond-flo­or hal­lway

  was de­ser­ted. I saw the mo­bi­le pho­ne lying on the crim­son silk lo­ve­se­at. I won­de­red whe­re Lyle was. I knew what he wo­uld be do­ing: thin­king, strug­gling, wor­king to de­vi­se a me­ans to sur­vi­ve. I ne­ver do­ub­ted that. Lyle was a man de­ter­mi­ned to pre­va­il -just as Cha­se had be­en. Fi­nal­ly, Cha­se had not pre­va­iled. Was Lyle the re­ason why?

  I sto­od the­re, trying to de­ci­de in which di­rec­ti­on to go. Tho­ughts glim­me­red in my mind with the swif­t­ness and in­cal­cu­la­bi­lity of gol­d­fish dar­ting de­ep in a sum­mer pond. I lis­te­ned for a mo­ment. Va­le­rie had left Rac­h­ma­ni­noff for De­bus­sy, and I to­ok so­me com­fort from-when the no­tes co­uld be he­ard abo­ve the shri­eking of the storm-the ele­gant stra­ins, pla­yed with gre­at de­li­cacy.

  I hadn't li­ked her when we met. I wis­hed now

  we'd had mo­re ti­me. I still might not li­ke her over­much, but the­re was mo­re to Va­le­rie than he
r sle­ek ve­ne­er sug­ges­ted.

  I wis­hed, too, that in what lo­oked to be the wa­ning mo­ments of my li­fe I had a hand to grasp, lo­ving eyes to lo­ok in­to. But per­haps it was bet­ter to re­ach the end whi­le en­ga­ged in the pur­su­it of a task. Cer­ta­inly that was the way I'd spent my li­fe. "Work for the night is co­ming"-that ver­se by An­nie Wal­ker has be­en my to­uc­h­s­to­ne. I co­uld ha­ve do­ne wor­se.

  It was much too la­te to was­te ti­me now.

  I was be­yond wor­rying abo­ut ni­ce­ti­es such as en­te­ring ro­oms unin­vi­ted.

  When no one an­s­we­red my knock at the first bed­ro­om in the op­po­si­te se­cond-story wing, I ope­ned the do­or. The bed was un­ma­de, of co­ur­se. Betty hadn't fol­lo­wed her usu­al ho­use­ke­eping ro­uti­ne. Not this mor­ning. But the un­ti­di­ness went fur­t­her than rum­p­led co­vers. A sandy be­ach to­wel was flung ca­re­les­sly over a cha­ir. Damp swim trunks lay on the flo­or hal­f­way bet­we­en the do­or and the bath. A half-empty so­da bot­tle and a crumb-lit­te­red pla­te we­re on the bed­si­de tab­le. Two bo­ating ma­ga­zi­nes lay be­si­de them. The­re was a bron­ze pic­tu­re fra­me on the dres­ser. I pic­ked it up. The yo­ung wo­man with curly black ha­ir la­ug­hed in­to the ca­me­ra. Her arm lay easily aro­und the sho­ul­ders of the sturdy lit­tle boy. He held a bas­ket­ball in the cro­ok of one arm. Has­kell's mot­her had be­en a very be­a­uti­ful yo­ung wo­man. I put down the fra­me and sa­id, on­ce aga­in, one mo­re ti­me as I had so of­ten this long mor­ning, a pra­yer for the sa­fety of her son.