Dead Man's Island

Dead Man's Island Page 9

by Carolyn G. Hart

  My glan­ce loc­ked with Cha­se's. We both knew that this qu­ar­rel was me­rely de­fer­red to anot­her ti­me and pla­ce.

  "And then?" I prod­ded. If Cha­se al­ways fol­lo­wed a par­ti­cu­lar re­gi­men, we co­uld ca­re­ful­ly check out the sur­ro­un­dings, be su­re he was sa­fe.

  "A sho­wer. Bre­ak­fast on the pa­tio. Then I walk down to the po­int." He ges­tu­red to the so­ut­he­ast. "Be­yond the pi­er the­re's a path that winds thro­ugh the wo­ods to a hu­ge ex­pan­se of be­ach. Storms dred­ge the sand from north of he­re, then, the way the cur­rent flows, the sand drops on the so­uth end of the is­land. The be­ach has ad­ded abo­ut fo­ur fe­et in the two ye­ars I've had this pla­ce. I had a sto­ne plat­form bu­ilt the­re with an at­tac­hed shed for my pa­in­ting sup­pli­es. I pa­int li­ke hell all mor­ning every mor­ning. I'm damn go­od." His grin was pu­re Cha­se, ego­is­ti­cal, full of him­self.

  Obviously, he to­ok this hob­by-tho­ugh I ma­de a men­tal no­te not to call it that-se­ri­o­usly.

  So I sa­id mildly, "You and Chur­c­hill, hmm?"

  He ga­ve a tiny shrug, but he ma­de no dis­c­la­imer.

  It was anot­her re­min­der of how long ago our paths had par­ted. For many ye­ars now Cha­se had be­en tre­ated by tho­se aro­und him with gre­at de­fe­ren­ce. We­alth can ha­ve many draw­backs, but per­haps the gre­atest is the se­pa­ra­ti­on of its pos­ses­sors from or­di­nary hu­man gi­ve-and-ta­ke. It was cle­ar that Cha­se sin­ce­rely be­li­eved he was qu­ite spe­ci­al in­de­ed.

  "I pa­int all mor­ning, then I co­me back to the ho­use abo­ut twel­ve-thirty for lunch. Af­ter lunch I get in so­me work. The­re's al­ways work. Abo­ut fo­ur I ro­und up Mi­ran­da and may­be go for a sa­il, may­be play so­me po­ol. That's when we don't ha­ve gu­ests. When we do, she al­ways has tea re­ady abo­ut fo­ur-

  thirty. I co­me or not, de­pen­ding on whet­her any of them are im­por­tant."

  That sum­med up that.

  He con­ti­nu­ed, ob­li­vi­o­us to my sar­do­nic amu­se­ment. "I fi­nish up in my of­fi­ce. Re­ad, re­lax. We ha­ve din­ner abo­ut se­ven-thirty. And so go­es anot­her day on Pres­cott Is­land." His to­ne was easy; his eyes we­re not. "So what do you pro­po­se for to­day?"

  5

  I told Cha­se what I wan­ted to do.

  His lo­ok was qu­iz­zi­cal. "You're ta­king that twen­ty-mi­nu­te blac­ko­ut se­ri­o­usly."

  "So sho­uld you." I didn't smi­le.

  I co­uld re­ad his tho­ughts: a lit­tle bit of ir­ri­ta­ti­on at my ta­king char­ge, then a ru­eful re­ali­za­ti­on that, af­ter all, he'd in­vi­ted me abo­ard.

  In any event, he ca­pi­tu­la­ted. "All right. Co­me along."

  At the French do­ors le­ading in­to his and Mi­ran­da's su­ite, he knoc­ked on the do­or, then ope­ned it. "Mi­ran­da? I've got com­pany." He held the do­or and nod­ded for me to en­ter.

  Miranda put down her ma­ke­up brush and half-tur­ned from her dres­sing tab­le. Her pretty he­art-sha­ped fa­ce was ut­terly blank, but her eyes we­re dark with de­ep un­hap­pi­ness. She was dres­sed for ten­nis.

  Obviously, I was abo­ut as wel­co­me as the bo­gey­man in a child's dre­am.

  Chase must ha­ve be­en awa­re of her dis­p­le­asu­re,

  but he cho­se to ig­no­re it. "I'm gi­ving Hen­rie O a lo­ok at how I spend ti­me he­re on the is­land. For the bo­ok."

  She grip­ped a red he­ad­band. "But you al­ways spend the mor­ning at the po­int. By yo­ur­self."

  "So I'm do­ing things a lit­tle dif­fe­rently to­day. It isn't every day we ha­ve a wor­ld-fa­mo­us aut­hor vi­si­ting us."

  The ro­om was be­a­uti­ful­ly de­co­ra­ted. The fo­ur-pos­ter was hu­ge to fit mo­dern tas­te but in the gra­ce­ful Chip­pen­da­le style. The pa­in­ted walls lo­oked li­ke gre­en li­nen. The bed­s­p­re­ad and wall han­gings we­re light in con­t­rast, a cre­am bac­k­g­ro­und for twi­ning clus­ters of ivy.

  "Oh." It was al­most a pi­ti­ful bre­ath of so­und. "Yes. Yes." She tur­ned back to­ward the mir­ror, blindly pic­ked up a tu­be of lip­s­tick. I knew te­ars brim­med in her eyes.

  "Here's my bath, Hen­rie O. This way." Cha­se was eit­her ob­li­vi­o­us to his wi­fe's pa­in or to­tal­ly unin­te­res­ted.

  Two bat­h­ro­oms ope­ned off eit­her si­de of the bed­ro­om. His and hers. I didn't ca­re what im­p­res­si­on it ma­de on Mi­ran­da, but I wal­ked in­to Cha­se's bath and exa­mi­ned the sho­wer. I tur­ned it on and off.

  At the la­va­tory I ope­ned the me­di­ci­ne ca­bi­net. Cha­se used a sin­g­le-ed­ge ra­zor. I pic­ked it up, un­s­c­re­wed it, to­ok the bla­de out, and in­ser­ted a new one.

  Chase sto­od in the do­or­way, -wat­c­hing with eyes

  that we­re half-amu­sed. As I step­ped to­ward him, he sa­id, too low for Mi­ran­da to he­ar, "De­ar God, do you think the bas­tard might sme­ar an­t­h­rax germs on my

  shaving bla­des?"

  "The po­int, Cha­se, is that we-and most es­pe­ci­al­ly you-must not ta­ke an­y­t­hing for gran­ted."

  I was glad to see when I step­ped back in­to the bed­ro­om that Mi­ran­da was ap­plying eye sha­dow. But she did so with a hand that trem­b­led. A spot sta­ined her che­ek. She ga­ve a lit­tle cry and re­ac­hed for a puff to scrub away the er­rant mark.

  She didn't res­pond as we sa­id go­od-bye. Her back was ri­gid. As we step­ped on­to the pa­tio, I glan­ced at Cha­se. If he was wor­ri­ed abo­ut the sta­te of his mar­ri­age, his fa­ce ga­ve no sign of it. Per­haps I had suc­ce­eded in ma­king my po­int, and he was con­cen­t­ra­ting on what an enemy co­uld ha­ve ac­com­p­lis­hed in that twenty mi­nu­tes of dar­k­ness.

  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 s
ay 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 Prescctt'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 h^ve 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.

  "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."

 

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