Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  A mur­de­red mag­na­te dis­pat­c­hed' in an ima­gi­na­ti­ve way. (Hot tub com­pa­ni­es crin­ged.) The ac­com­pan­ying Ha­wa­i­i­an mu­sic was an ad­ded fil­lip.

  A gor­ge­o­us yo­ung wi­dow who had la­in pe­ri­lo­usly ne­ar de­ath for days, af­for­ding the op­por­tu­nity for run­ning up­da­tes on Mi­ran­da's con­di­ti­on and the joyo­us re­li­ef when she sur­vi­ved un­da­ma­ged. Much was writ­ten abo­ut her pas­si­ona­te lo­ve for her ol­der hus­band. No one cal­led it ob­ses­si­on. As it was. I felt cer­ta­in that it was she who'd se­ar­c­hed my ro­om that first af­ter­no­on. At le­ast she'd fo­und not­hing the­re to bre­ak her he­art. But I won­de­red if she wo­uld ever be at pe­ace.

  An is­land kin­g­dom, cut off from the world, ste­eped in lu­xury, do­omed to sud­den des­t­ruc­ti­on. The new­s­pa­pers car­ri­ed ela­bo­ra­te ar­c­hi­tec­tu­ral ren­de­rings, in­ter­vi­ews with the in­te­ri­or-de­sign firm, even a des­c­rip­ti­on of the ro­om-si­ze ref­ri­ge­ra­tor whe­re Cha­se had la­in un­til the bu­il­ding suc­cum­bed to the storm. This ma­de it pos­sib­le to spe­cu­la­te on what had hap­pe­ned to his body and dit­to that of his mur­de­rer, Tre­vor Dun­na­way.

  A kil­ler hur­ri­ca­ne that ra­va­ged the co­ast with two-hun­d­red-mi­le-an-ho­ur winds, prom­p­ting a mas­si­ve but suc­ces­sful eva­cu­ati­on of se­ve­ral hun­d­red tho­usand re­si­dents, in­c­lu­ding the gal­lant res­cue of tho­se stran­ded on De­ad Man's Is­land. The press, of co­ur­se, re­lis­hed the old na­me for the is­land. Spin-off sto­ri­es in­c­lu­ded com­pa­ri­sons with pre­vi­o­us hur­ri­ca­nes and the all-ti­me de­ath toll in the gre­at Gal­ves-

  ton storm, long be­fo­re we­at­her ser­vi­ces co­uld warn of im­pen­ding dan­ger.

  The co­ura­ge­o­us and stri­kingly han­d­so­me step­son who had ris­ked his li­fe on a fra­il ho­me­ma­de raft to se­ek res­cue for tho­se in pe­ril.

  The fa­mo­us ac­t­ress who had fa­ced de­ath with ap­lomb.

  The enig­ma­tic man­ser­vant who had be­en ar­res­ted as he tri­ed to le­ave the Co­ast Gu­ard air sta­ti­on. (A tip, in­ves­ti­ga­tors sa­id la­ter. It was easy eno­ugh for me to pass a no­te to the co-pi­lot sa­ying En­ri­que was we­aring a body belt pac­ked with co­ca­ine. But mo­re abo­ut that la­ter.)

  The gri­ef-st­ric­ken son who had held a press con­fe­ren­ce to an­no­un­ce his in­tent to ho­nor his la­te fat­her's me­mory by di­rec­ting Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons to vi­go­ro­usly pur­sue in­ves­ti­ga­ti­ve re­por­ting to ro­ot out mal­fe­asan­ce in of­fi­ce, de­sec­ra­ti­on of the en­vi­ron­ment, fi­nan­ci­al fra­ud, the ina­de­qu­ate res­pon­se of so­ci­ety to the men­tal­ly ill, drug and al­co­hol ad­dic­ti­on, the in­su­ran­ce scan­dal in me­di­ci­ne, and chil­d­ren who li­ved in po­verty.

  The ur­ba­ne and char­ming mur­de­rer was the su­bj­ect of lengthy ar­tic­les ba­sed on in­ter­vi­ews with his fri­ends and pro­fes­si­onal as­so­ci­ates.

  It af­for­ded the ju­ici­est pe­ek in­to the world of the rich sin­ce the Cla­us von Bil­low tri­al.

  And a spa­te of ar­tic­les on the re­ti­red new­s­pa­per­wo­man tur­ned sus­pen­se no­ve­list, Hen­ri­et­ta O'Dw­yer Col­lins. So­me old fri­ends, no do­ubt, we­re a bit sur­p­ri­sed by my wil­lin­g­ness to ser­ve as a news so­ur­ce. But I know my fel­low re­por­ters: a fed dog do­esn't scratch to dig up bo­nes. I was qu­ite wil­ling to play

  raconteur to fo­cus the re­por­ters' at­ten­ti­on on me to­day and not on my past.

  The sen­sa­ti­on fi­nal­ly sub­si­ded, of co­ur­se.

  The facts abo­ut the mur­der of Cha­se Pres­cott pro­vi­ded one of the pre­mi­er news sto­ri­es of the de­ca­de.

  But it wasn't the true story.

  16

  One fact was evi­dent.

  Trevor Dun­na­way had struck down Bur­ton An­d­rews.

  But, as we spun our the­ori­es du­ring that he­li­cop­ter ri­de, I was ne­ver fully sa­tis­fi­ed with our re­con­s­t­ruc­ti­on of the cri­mes.

  It ma­de sen­se, yes.

  But the­re we­re still lo­ose ends.

  Who had des­t­ro­yed the Mi­ran­da B.I Cer­ta­inly the­re was no ra­ti­onal re­ason for Tre­vor to ha­ve ma­ro­oned him­self on the is­land.

  I as­ked Ro­ger to hi­re the pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ves. I set them to work sco­uring the co­unty for pur­c­ha­sers of dyna­mi­te, es­pe­ci­al­ly tho­se who had bo­ught only a few sticks.

  It was easi­er than I'd ex­pec­ted.

  Frank Hud­son, who'd ta­ken me over to Pres­cott

  Island the day I ar­ri­ved, cla­imed he had bo­ught the dyna­mi­te to rid his land of so­me tree stumps. Ul­ti­ma­tely, a jury didn't be­li­eve him, es­pe­ci­al­ly when the she­riff's of­fi­ce did ex­cel­lent work in iden­tif­ying so­me flot­sam from the ex­p­lo­si­on that the storm had de­po­si­ted in­land and a fo­ren­sic che­mist tes­ti­fi­ed that the Mi­ran­da B. 's por­t­hole had be­en da­ma­ged by a dyna­mi­te blast. Tes­ti­mony un­der­s­co­red Hud­son's in­ten­se hat­red for Cha­se Pres­cott and how Hud­son be­li­eved his fa­mily's is­land had be­en sto­len by Cha­se.

  So the ex­p­lo­si­on was se­pa­ra­te from the mur­ders. The ex­p­lo­si­on was the act of an angry, ven­ge­ful man who had spi­ed an op­por­tu­nity to re­pay the Pres­cot­ts for ta­king what Hud­son saw as his own, De­ad Man's Is­land.

  That sim­p­li­fi­ed the equ­ati­on. I tho­ught that wo­uld sa­tisfy my nig­gling sen­se that so­met­hing was off-key.

  And I was de­lig­h­ted when the news bro­ke that En­ri­que's ar­rest had smas­hed a po­wer­ful smug­gling ring. En­ri­que had re­mo­ved a ship­ment of co­ca­ine from the Mi­ran­da B. when it went in for its an­nu­al over­ha­ul. He had had the drug ship­ment on the is­land. When the hur­ri­ca­ne was im­mi­nent, he had hur­ri­ed to the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters to get the ship­ment.

  Chase had be­en cle­ver but not cle­ver eno­ugh to re­ali­ze that his lon­g­ti­me em­p­lo­yee had used the Mi­ran­da B. to smug­gle hu­ge qu­an­ti­ti­es of co­ca­ine. La­ter in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on re­ve­aled that En­ri­que ow­ned a man­si­on in Bo­li­via and that the ga­ra­ge at his by-no-me­ans-mo­dest ho­me in Mi­ami har­bo­red a Jagu­ar and a Rol­ls-Roy­ce.

  Rosalia wasn't im­p­li­ca­ted. Ro­ger hel­ped her ob-

  tain co­un­se­ling and a new li­fe whe­re En­ri­que or his agents wo­uld ne­ver find her.

  At my di­rec­ti­on the pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ve in­ves­ti­ga­ted ever­yo­ne, so I le­ar­ned all abo­ut Betty's fa­mily: her da­ug­h­ter, Mary, who had lost her job at the je­ans fac­tory and had no he­alth in­su­ran­ce and co­uldn't pay the bills when her lit­tle girl, Ali­ce, be­ca­me se­ve­rely di­abe­tic with all the tre­at­ment and ex­pen­se that en­ta­ils.

  Betty des­pe­ra­tely "ne­eded mo­ney to sa­ve the li­fe of her only gran­d­c­hild. And for ye­ars she'd re­sen­ted Cha­se's tre­at­ment of Car­rie Lee Pres­cott. So she had fo­und it easy to me­et sec­retly with Jeremy Hub­bard and pro­vi­de all tho­se dam­ning and qu­ite true sto­ri­es abo­ut Cha­se and his fa­mily for the una­ut­ho­ri­zed bi­og­raphy that had cre­ated such nasty he­ad­li­nes.

  That sho­uld ha­ve an­s­we­red all my qu­es­ti­ons. But still…

  Perhaps I've co­ve­red too many sto­ri­es, as­ked too many qu­es­ti­ons. De­ep in­si­de I knew it wasn't over. Yet. For me.

  Not even when I fi­nal­ly ca­me ho­me, mo­re than a we­ek la­ter. I wal­ked in­to the ho­use and re­ali­zed this was how it had be­gun for me.»

  Coming ho­me, and a te­lep­ho­ne call.

  And the­re on the bed we­re my pic­tu­res of Ric­hard and Emily. I ga­ve a lit­tle sa­lu­te to Ric­hard
's por­t­ra­it, a go­od one that re­cal­led his bro­ad, open fa­ce, red­dish-brown ha­ir, and gre­en eyes. And that fa­mi­li­ar cro­oked grin.

  I drop­ped my su­it­ca­se and car­ry-on and pic­ked up the pho­tog­raph of Emily.

  The pho­ne rang.

  My he­art lif­ted as I re­cog­ni­zed her vo­ice. "Hel­lo, lo­ve. Yes, I'm glad to be ho­me."

  Emily had a lot of qu­es­ti­ons abo­ut my or­de­al.

  I an­s­we­red so ca­re­ful­ly.

  Too ca­re­ful­ly.

  "Mother, what's wrong?" My da­ug­h­ter has an un­can­ny way of sen­sing when I'm not be­ing ab­so­lu­tely open with her. She is ut­terly rut­h­less in pri­zing out the truth. "Mot­her, are you all right?" A de­fi­ni­te no­te of sus­pi­ci­on.

  "Of co­ur­se. Just a lit­tle frus­t­ra­ted. I'm be­hind. I ne­ed to get star­ted on the new bo­ok-and I don't even ha­ve an idea yet." I car­ri­ed the pho­ne out­si­de and set­tled be­si­de the pond. Sun­light splas­hed on the por­t­ra­it I still held.

  "Oh." Her re­li­ef was evi­dent. "You al­ways fe­el that way in the be­gin­ning. The bo­ok will co­me."

  There's not­hing qu­ite so ir­ri­ta­ting to an aut­hor as a fa­mily mem­ber's easy con­fi­den­ce that, of co­ur­se, the bo­ok will co­me.

  I snap­ped, "It's li­ke trying to chip an idea out of con­c­re­te. Not­hing's co­ming!"

  "It will, it will. Pro­bably you're still emo­ti­onal­ly in­vol­ved with that is­land. But the ex­ci­te­ment's dying down. It won't be news much lon­ger, then it will be easi­er for you to for­get."

  Forget?

  No, I wo­uldn't for­get.

  I ma­na­ged to di­vert Emily, to turn the con­ver­sa­ti­on to her work.

  I didn't ever want to talk to Emily abo­ut Cha­se and what had hap­pe­ned and why.

  So I sup­po­se it's un­der­s­tan­dab­le that when our

  conversation en­ded, my tho­ughts tur­ned to Cha­se. I sat qu­i­etly on the rus­tic bench, Emily's pic­tu­re in my lap, and sur­ve­yed the gar­den. Not my gar­den, of co­ur­se. I ha­ve no gre­en thumb, and I've ne­ver lig­h­ted long eno­ugh in one spot to in­vest myself in plants. But this ho­use ca­me with a dre­amily gor­ge­o­us bac­k­yard that in­c­lu­des a we­eping wil­low-sh­ro­uded pond with a rock fo­un­ta­in in the cen­ter.

  I wel­co­med the Sep­tem­ber warmth, the oc­ca­si­onal waf­ting pasff of glo­ri­o­us Mo­narchs on the­ir way to Me­xi­co, and the mu­si­cal splash from the fo­un­ta­in.

  And I stop­ped avo­iding tho­ughts abo­ut Cha­se. Per­haps I'd ne­ver be free of tho­se tra­uma­tic days un­til I per­mit­ted myself to gri­eve. Frag­ments of me­mory slip­ped and slid ac­ross the sur­fa­ce of my mind as I wat­c­hed the wa­ter tric­k­ling down and aro­und the mossy gray rocks, so ar­t­ful­ly con­s­t­ruc­ted to lo­ok li­ke a mi­ni­atu­re mo­un­ta­in ran­ge.

  I tho­ught of Cha­se's unex­pec­ted te­lep­ho­ne call and that in­s­tantly fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice, with its un­fa­mi­li­ar un­der­cur­rent of des­pe­ra­ti­on.

  Desperation?

  Yes. Lo­oking back, I re­ali­zed Cha­se had be­en fi­er­cely de­ter­mi­ned to per­su­ade me to co­me to his is­land, that it was of pa­ra­mo­unt im­por­tan­ce to him. Of co­ur­se, it had all be­en pre­ar­ran­ged, the gu­est list ca­re­ful­ly de­vi­sed so that I co­uld play de­tec­ti­ve, iden­tify the per­son who'd at­tem­p­ted to po­ison him.

  He'd bril­li­antly pla­yed every card he'd had to en­list my aid. I sup­po­se he knew that I'd ne­ver shed the gu­ilt of le­aving, all tho­se ye­ars ago.

  He'd subtly ta­ken ad­van­ta­ge of that.

  A wisp of wind stir­red my ha­ir. It had just the fa­in­test un­der­to­ne of fall in it, the first hint of chill.

  Like the chill that ed­ged in­to my he­art, re­mem­be­ring Cha­se and that pho­ne call.

  Yes, he'd pla­yed his cards be­a­uti­ful­ly. But was I sur­p­ri­sed? I'd al­ways known what Cha­se was li­ke. De­ter­mi­ned to win-al­ways - no mat­ter what the cost, no mat­ter who was hurt, no mat­ter…

  Chase's cha­rac­ter.

  And Bur­ton's cha­rac­ter.

  Burton, so ter­ri­fi­ed of be­ing bla­med for do­ing so­met­hing wrong.

  I cur­led my fin­gers aro­und the me­tal arm of the bench, wel­co­ming the warmth trap­ped in the iron cur­ve.

  I ne­eded warmth be­ca­use I was se­e­ing and thin­king now with a cold cla­rity.

  I sho­uld ha­ve se­en it from the very first.

  One pi­ece of po­iso­ned candy.

  Shots. Swift, ca­re­ful­ly aimed shots.

  The elec­t­ri­city tur­ned off on Thur­s­day night so that the ha­ir dryer co­uld not only be put in pla­ce but plug­ged in. That was when the kil­ler re­tur­ned to the ge­ne­ra­tor and tur­ned it back on- to ma­ke cer­ta­in that the plug­ged-in dryer wo­uldn 't trip the cir­cu­it bre­aker. The ne­ar en­co­un­ter with me must ha­ve be­en ner­ve-rac­king in­de­ed. But I'd run to sa­fety. So then all that re­ma­ined was to go to the po­ol, go in­to the ca­ba­na, trip the bre­aker to that li­ne, go out­si­de, un­p­lug the dryer, re­set the bre­aker. The tri­al run was over. Now it was cer­ta­in-on­ce the ha­ir dryer was plug­ged in - that an­yo­ne en­te­ring the hot tub wo­uld be im­me­di­ately, ef­fi­ci­ently, swiftly elec­t­ro­cu­ted; the­re wo­uld be

  no trip­ped bre­aker to frus­t­ra­te the plan­ned elec­t­ro­cu­ti­on.

  And that was what had hap­pe­ned.

  But anot­her ele­ment to the plan was cru­ci­al to its suc­cess: tho­se shots aimed at Cha­se. I'd sen­sed that- but not qu­ite un­der­s­to­od why.

  What did the shots ac­com­p­lish?

  They ga­ve me and Tre­vor an ali­bi. This was es­sen­ti­al. Be­ca­use ob­vi­o­usly Tre­vor was part of the sche­me.

  What did Bur­ton tell me abo­ut the shots?

  There was an un­mis­ta­kab­le ring of truth in his vo­ice when he sa­id, al­most ta­un­tingly, "I didn't jee an­y­body jho­ot at Cha­de."

  But af­ter Cha­se's de­ath Bur­ton wor­ri­ed abo­ut it. And he de­ci­ded, be­ca­use he wodn 't a part of the plan, that he sho­uld tell so­me­one.

  Who?

  Someone in aut­ho­rity, ob­vi­o­usly. So­me­one who co­uld tell Bur­ton what he sho­uld do.

  Why did he cho­ose Tre­vor? Not, as I had tho­ught, be­ca­use Tre­vor had an ali­bi for the gun­s­hots. That didn't fi­gu­re at all. Bur­ton was still clo­se to Cha­se's in­f­lu­en­ce. Cha­se didn't con­fi­de in Ro­ger abo­ut bu­si­ness. Bur­ton didn't li­ke Lyle. But Tre­vor - Tre­vor was Cha­se's ma­in ad­vi­ser.

  So Bur­ton ma­de his de­ci­si­on. He wo­uld tell Tre­vor.

  That sig­ned his de­ath war­rant.

  Because Tre­vor co­uldn't af­ford to ha­ve an­yo­ne know that no one had shot at Cha­se.

  I grip­ped the bench ra­il so hard my hand ac­hed.

  Why, oh, why, hadn't I se­en it from the first?

  I didn't ne­ed an ali­bi. Tre­vor was the one to be ali­bi­ed. His ali­bi was his pri­ce for co­ope­ra­ting with Cha­se in Cha­se's dark and fi­nal plan.

  Who plan­ned the is­land gat­he­ring?

  Who was de­ter­mi­ned-al­ways-to tri­umph?

  Who sa­id he wo­uld rat­her die than see his em­pi­re des­t­ro­yed?

  Who knew bet­ter than an­yo­ne that the Lloyd's of Lon­don mo­ney wo­uld sa­ve Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons?

  And who knew bet­ter than an­yo­ne how ex­ha­us­ti­vely in­su­ran­ce com­pa­ni­es in­ves­ti­ga­te tho­se kinds of de­ath cla­ims?

  So who po­iso­ned that candy?

  Chase.

  Who shot the gun on the sunny po­int that mor­ning?

  Chase.

  That's what Bur­ton saw. That's what he kn
ew.

  That's why Bur­ton had to die. Be­ca­use ever­y­t­hing Cha­se did was known to Tre­vor. And Tre­vor had to ag­ree with Cha­se's des­pe­ra­te sche­me be­ca­use he was in it up to his neck in the mi­su­se of vast sums of mo­ni­es in a des­pe­ra­te at­tempt to sa­ve Pres­cott Com­mu­ni­ca­ti­ons. Tre­vor knew only the Lloyd's po­licy wo­uld be eno­ugh to sa­ve them. The­re was no fi­nan­cing wa­iting in the wings. If Lloyd's di­sal­lo­wed the po­licy on the ba­sis that Cha­se's de­ath was su­ici­de, not mur­der, all wo­uld be lost. Tre­vor had to ha­ve the pro­ce­eds from Lloyd's.