Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01

by Dead Man's Island

  In fact, as we walked toward the pier, he surveyed the gardens with a quick, nervous intensity as if he’d never seen them before.

  That was all to the good.

  I took the lead on the path that plunged into the thick tangle of semitropical woods.

  I walked slowly.

  It takes a good deal of care to search in dim light for traces of digging or for a vine conveniently stretched across a path. I also checked the trees.

  He started to look, too.

  His face was rather white by the time we reached the point.

  “Wait here,” I instructed.

  He watched as once again I surveyed the area, this time paying particular attention to the sand and the stepping-stones leading to the stone platform. I wasn’t worried about the platform. It’s hard to booby-trap stone.

  But the door to the storage shed was another matter altogether.

  The door appeared perfectly normal. I found no wires, no sprinkling of sawdust, no sign it had been tampered with.

  Still, I gestured for Chase to remain where he was. I moved back a good twenty feet, seized a baseball-size clump of oyster shells, and lofted it toward the shed.

  The unlocked door jolted open as the shells split apart and clattered noisily but harmlessly on the platform.

  I crossed the platform, then checked out the shed. “Okay, Chase. Everything looks fine here. I’ll return at noon, and we’ll go to the house together.”

  He stood at the edge of the platform, staring at me. “You’ve certainly added a sparkle to my day, Henrie O. I can’t wait to get started on a new painting. Maybe some nice skulls. Or a graveyard in the rain. How does that strike you?”

  I gave him a little salute as I headed toward the trail. “Just relax on the platform, Chase. It’s perfectly safe. More than you can say about a commuter flight or elective surgery. Think how brave Valerie is. It will buck you up.”

  His laughter wasn’t altogether forced. “Go to hell,” he called after me.

  I walked fast. Actually, I felt pretty good about the morning so far. Chase was safely situated, fully alert to danger, and now I could get started on my real job—the hunt for a killer.

  It didn’t take long to find everyone.

  Trevor and Miranda were playing tennis. I admired their stamina. It was so humid the air felt thick enough to reach out and grab a handful. Lyle jogged around the small track, his running shoes scuffing the smooth surface, sweat staining his blue nylon shorts, his bold-featured face crimson with exertion. He was running too fast for the weather, but maybe he was used to it. Enrique knelt by a sprinkler head in the rose garden. Valerie wore a sun hat even though she sat in the shade of a honeysuckle arbor. She was painting her fingernails, her arched eyebrows drawn down in a tight frown. Not the best facial exercise for redone skin. Haskell floated on a raft in the middle of the pool, a wet towel hiding his face. In the kitchen Rosalia loaded the dishwasher. Betty was dusting in the main entrance hall. In the library Roger was stretched comfortably on a couch, reading. He gave me a friendly smile.

  As I had expected, I found Burton Andrews in Chase’s study. The personality of the room—the Impressionist paintings, the weight of books, books, books, the vast collection of elegant music boxes—diminished the dapper little secretary, making him look even paler and less substantial than he was. His slicked-down hair was the color of straw. His inexpensive pastel sports shirt hung on slender shoulders. His hands were untanned and thin. Sitting behind Chase’s massive desk, he looked like a boy.

  I reviewed what I knew about him. Thirty-two. Unmarried. Graduate of a community college. Finance major. He’d been working as a temp in the main Atlanta offices of Prescott Communications when Chase’s longtime secretary divorced and moved to Tahiti with an artist friend. (Now that would be an interesting story.) In the dossier Chase touted Burton’s efficiency and willingness to work long hours. There was no hint that Chase took any special pleasure in his company; this was a subordinate, a human machine expected to perform given tasks and rewarded on that basis. Burton’s salary was twenty-seven thousand a year. Not a high salary for the secretary to such a rich man. Perhaps the least attractive defect of some of the superrich is stinginess. I didn’t remember that of Chase. Had he changed? Had he permitted greed to mold him utterly?

  “Good morning, Burton.”

  He rose immediately. “Good morning, Mrs. Collins. What can I do for you?”

  I waved him back to his seat. I am accustomed to sizing people up. Burton’s voice and demeanor were that of the perfect secretary, accommodating, respectful, attentive.

  “I want a copy of The Man Who Picks Presidents.”

  Surprise—and a trace of uneasiness?—flickered in Burton’s pale eyes, but he made no comment and pulled open the bottom right desk drawer.

  He stared into it for a long moment, Frowning, he leaned closer, fumbled with the files. Finally he closed the drawer and looked up. “The copy isn’t here.” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “I’ll check with Mr. Prescott. Perhaps he has it, though…”

  I waited, but he didn’t finish the sentence. So I prompted him. “Though …?”

  “Well, I’d be surprised if Mr. Prescott has it. He hasn’t asked for it. And it makes him mad every time the book’s mentioned.” A flash of malicious amusement gave his eyes liveliness for a moment, then they were once again unreadable. “He filed suit immediately, you know, trying to stop publication, but that didn’t work. Now there’s the libel suit. You know about that?”

  I nodded.

  “And about the private detective?”

  I was beginning to get irritated with Chase. How many things that mattered had he failed to mention to me? But for Burton’s benefit I nodded once again, my face bland. “Oh, yes. How’s that coming?”

  My answer, for some reason, reassured him. “The agency wasn’t successful in determining where the information about the family came from. But Mr. Prescott’s going to hire another agency. He’s determined to find out who leaked the personal information to that author.” The secretary looked at me sharply.

  Now I got it. Burton was wondering if that was my assignment from Chase. Why should he care? Was he the informer?

  My judgment was swift on that. No, he didn’t have the guts, and he wasn’t nearly nervous enough for that to be the case.

  But, for some other reason, he was extremely wary about any investigation into the background of that book. I tucked that conclusion away for future study and focused on the import of Burton’s revelations.

  “I certainly don’t blame Chase for that. I know that’s what upset him the most, the realization that someone he trusted, someone close to him, had betrayed him.”

  It’s an old journalism trick, making a statement that can then be attributed to the unwary person being interviewed if he/she says yes. (Chase Prescott’s personal secretary confirmed today that unsubstantiated accusations of impropriety in the recent sensational unauthorized biography of the media magnate are believed to have originated either from Prescott’s family circle or from close business associates….)

  The secretary nodded. “Mr. Prescott’s furious.” Was there just a trace of satisfaction in his tone?

  “If Mr. Prescott doesn’t have the book, who might have taken it?”

  “I don’t know.” He Looked thoughtful.

  “When did you last see it?” I led him through a series of questions.

  In sum, the book was there on Wednesday. Today was Friday.

  Anyone on the island could have taken it.

  Why?

  To keep me from seeing it? That only figured if the person who fed the author confidential information was on the island and feared that I was there for that reason.

  A stretch. But the guilty flee …

  It would be critically important to the informer to remain unknown. Exposure would, at the very least, result in expulsion from the family or the business.

  That could be a strong motive for murder.

&nb
sp; “If it’s important, I can pick up another copy when I go over to the mainland on Monday.”

  Burton’s offer interested me. Obviously, he didn’t care whether I saw the notorious biography. So apparently what worried him was the fact that someone would take it.

  It didn’t worry me. It interested me enormously.

  “Thanks, Burton. I would appreciate it. Now, let’s get to work. This will be only the first of many, many sessions we’ll have during the course of my research on Mr. Prescott’s biography”—I tried to sound as mellifluous and reassuring as a $200-an-hour shrink—“and today I want to focus on you.”

  “On me?” His face froze in the startled-deer look made famous by a late-twentieth-century vice president.

  “My practice is always to start an interview by finding out about my contact. We’ll relax and chat. When I know more about you, I can put your thoughts about Mr. Prescott into a better context.”

  This is, actually, sound interviewing technique. Stay the hell away from the sensitive questions until you’ve disarmed your subject. It’s also a good way to finger a liar. Feed questions that have no bite—where were you born, where did you grow up, where did you go to school, what was your college major, etc.—then when everything’s easy and smooth, slip in a question that matters. It’s astonishing what you’ll learn. If you watch eyes and hands, you’ll never need a he detector.

  Of course, that kind of interviewing also has a secondary effect. It turns contacts into real people for the interviewer. I learned about Burton’s older sister, who had raised him after his mother died. (The quick blinking back of tears when he told about her funeral last May.) He collected stamps and raised tropical fish. (“They have so much personality, just like people.”) The stress of temping. (“God, you never know what will happen, and they always blame the temp!”)

  I opened my purse, rather ostentatiously dropped my pen and notepad inside, and settled back in a relaxed fashion. (“The better to eat you, my dear,”) “What’s it like, working for Chase Prescott?”

  He smiled falsely. “Oh, it’s fascinating. Always something new and different. Mr. Prescott is brilliant. He’s always two steps ahead of everyone.”

  Poor little guy. It was easy to imagine what kind of hell it could be to try to satisfy the demands of a man who thought himself to be very special indeed.

  I waited. Most people can’t stand silence.

  Burton shifted restlessly in Chase’s big chair. “People who don’t understand him think he’s bad-tempered. It isn’t that at all.” Cautious pale eyes blinked nervously. “He’s impatient. You see, his mind works so quickly, and he expects everyone to be as smart as he is.”

  Actually, I didn’t recall that of Chase. Rather, I felt Chase prided himself on being smarter than anyone around him. Not, really, an attractive quality on his part.

  “Are you as smart as Mr. Prescott?” This wasn’t, of course, a fair question. But skewering through defenses isn’t a pretty exercise.

  He flushed. “Are you making fun of me, Mrs. Collins?”

  “No.”

  “If I was as smart as Mr. Prescott, I wouldn’t be a secretary. I do the best I can.”

  “I suspect Chase is more fortunate than he knows to have a secretary like you.” I should have been ashamed of myself.

  He looked at me warily, unaccustomed to praise.

  “In fact, I’ll make it a point to tell Chase how outstanding I think you are. He can trust you—which is certainly more than can be said of some of the other people in this house.”

  I had him eating out of the palm of my hand. His suspicions tumbled over each other.

  “Listen, Mrs. Collins, I know it’s Roger who spilled that awful stuff about the family to the writer … He tries to pretend he likes his father, but it’s a lie, a lie…. Roger loathes him, I know he does … Never made any money on his own. Why, he just barely makes a living … Miranda’s been acting funny the last few weeks … I see her up at night walking around … Lyle Stedman thinks he’s already as big a deal as Mr. Prescott just because he’s been picked to be CEO. I think that’s making Mr. Prescott kind of mad…. Butter won’t melt in that lawyer’s mouth. I don’t trust him. I tried to tell Mr. Prescott once, but he wouldn’t listen…. That snotty Haskell Lee treats me like I’m dirt. Asks me to get him things, like I’m some kind of servant … I might as well not exist as far as Mrs. St. Vincent’s concerned. But she’d better watch how she acts …”

  There was a lot of venom and resentment stored behind Burton’s obsequious facade. When he finally ran down, I inquired mildly, “Who should I talk to next? Who do you think will be the most honest and open about Mr. Prescott?”

  The secretary’s answer surprised me.

  I suppose someday, should I ever make it to Eden, I’ll find it much like the sanitized, controlled garden of luxury that Chase had created on Prescott Island, with flowering shrubs and sea-soft air and tiny pockets of privacy at every hand.

  As I walked up the shell path, I welcomed the shade from the willows that fenced off the jogging track from both the back gardens and the house. It was only midmorning, but the hot air flowed over me like melted caramel.

  As befitted an earthly paradise, there were several comfortable webbed garden chairs beneath the shade of an arbor beside the track. I took a seat and watched Lyle Stedman jog. Lean and muscular, he had the easy grace of an accomplished athlete. His red hair was plastered limply to his skull. Unsmiling, breathing harshly, Lyle looked tough, absorbed, withdrawn. He slowed to a walk, still moving briskly.

  His dossier revealed a young man in a hurry. Lyle Stedman started poor, the only son of a divorced secretary. He learned early that he was good at sports. It became his ticket to college, a track scholarship to the University of Mississippi. He was the house manager in his fraternity. He also played poker. Between the fraternity job, his scholarship, and cards, Stedman put together enough of a nest egg to pay his way to the Middle East. There he badgered every news bureau for a job until he landed one, starting off as a stringer. Three years later Prescott Communications hired him full time. When the Gulf War began, Lyle’s stories caught the attention of Chase himself. Chase brought the young journalist back to the Atlanta office. Lyle Stedman outhustled his peers, and six months ago—at the tender age of twenty-seven—he was named Chase’s heir apparent.

  I imagined he’d made enemies in his scramble to succeed. I doubted that he gave a damn.

  Lyle’s stride checked. He hesitated, then came toward me, his expression impassive. He picked up a towel from a nearby chair, wiped off his face, then dropped into the chair across from me. Intelligent green eyes challenged me. He waited for me to speak.

  I reached up and broke off a spray of honeysuckle. This time I didn’t try the dear-old-lady-writer-cozying-up-to-the-subject. Lyle Stedman was a far cry from Burton Andrews. “Having fun?” A South Carolina—size wasp buzzed a little too near.

  “You’re the hotshot reporter. You tell me.”

  “Sure. About as much fun as a root canal.” I would have guessed his last vacation had been in junior high school.

  He did laugh at that. “Okay. Truce. The boss says you’re writing his life. Why?”

  “Money, of course.” This is the kind of answer that usually embarrasses the asker enough to shut down further questions on the subject.

  Not Lyle Stedman. He lifted one thick red eyebrow. “I know who you are. You’ve won every award there is. Covered the world. Then successfully made the switch to big-time fiction. You don’t need money.”

  I tried evasive action. “But Prescott Communications does need money. In a bad way. Want to tell me about it?”

  “If the boss heard that, he’d can you on the spot.” Lyle leaned back in his chair and regarded me shrewdly. “I don’t get this. The party line at the office is: Everything’s swell, don’t ask stupid questions, the money will come in, Prescott Communications forever with a drum roll and a trumpet tattoo in the background. So what gives?”r />
  I crushed the honeysuckle in my hand, savoring the sweet, thick summertime smell. “Do you think the money’s not coming in?”

  “Goddamn. You’ve either got more guts than anybody I’ve ever met or you play it the way it lies. But in case you’re carrying tidbits back to Chase, no, I don’t think he’s delusional. If the boss says the money’s coming in, it will come. So I’m telling everybody to cool it. I’m telling everybody to concentrate on the job. Leave the high finance to the boss. It won’t be the first time he’s worked a miracle.”

  Lyle was trying to convince himself, not me. But it gave me a nice opening, and I pounced on it. I learned a lot more that I didn’t know about Chase. Lyle got into the spirit of it, and I soon saw that this intelligent, impatient, ambitious young man was one of those rare creatures—a dispassionate observer. He was quick, yes, to say when he thought Chase was at fault—the celebrated unauthorized-biography libel case, for example—but just as quick to extol virtues, painting a vivid picture of a man fanatically devoted to the company he had built from nothing, an impatient, quick-tempered man with an unerring eye for what popular taste craved and a fierce determination to be the first to satisfy that hunger.

  “That, in sum, is why he’s richer than Croesus.” The heir apparent hunched forward in his chair, his voice admiring. I could read the rest of his thought. One of these days, he, too, was going to be just as rich. When it was his turn. “Yeah, the boss was one of the first to get the idea that the simple life was back in style. He started new sections in every paper and a segment in the morning talk show’s about back-to-basics, down with conspicuous consumption. People loved it. The letters poured in. Now everybody’s on the bandwagon.”

  “The simple life.”

  He flashed a surprisingly charming grin. “Just because it’s in his newspapers doesn’t mean he’s taken a vow of austerity. Here we are on Prescott Island, in a little grass shack for his buddies. But why the hell not?”

  “So why did he ask you here this weekend?” My fingers felt sticky from the honeysuckle.