Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Roger thrust his she­et at me. "Mi­ran­da, wa­it, wa­it a mi­nu­te." Over his sho­ul­der he mut­te­red, "Po­or lit­tle thing's up­set. I'll see to her."

  Hmm. So Ro­ger was eager to com­fort his step­mot­her. His so-much-yo­un­ger step­mot­her. That was worth thin­king abo­ut.

  Haskell am­b­led over. "I sho­uld ha­ve had my he­ad exa­mi­ned when I got out of the po­ol to go see what the no­ise was all abo­ut. Why the hell sho­uld I ca­re who tri­es to blow Cha­se's he­ad off?"

  "Or I?" Va­le­rie de­man­ded, swe­eping past me in a clo­ud of gar­de­nia per­fu­me.

  The sec­re­tary ed­ged to­ward me. Bur­ton ga­ve me the she­et, then lo­oked back to­ward Cha­se. "Uh, will you want me in the study now?"'

  Chase wa­ved him away im­pa­ti­ently, and Bur­ton hur­ri­ed out.

  Rosalia was wa­iting for Betty to com­p­le­te her she­et. The two wo­men ca­me to the do­or to­get­her. "We will be in the kit­c­hen." She glan­ced une­asily back at her hus­band, then step­ped thro­ugh the open do­or.

  Enrique po­ked his she­et to­ward me, his dark fa­ce sul­len, and stro­de past, co­ming just a bit too clo­se to be co­ur­te­o­us.

  As they left, I clo­sed the do­or. I fa­ced Tre­vor and Cha­se.

  Chase star­ted to spe­ak, but I held up my hand. "Tre­vor?"

  The law­yer had a half-amu­sed, half-em­bar­ras­sed lo­ok on his han­d­so­me fa­ce. "Damn stran­ge ex­pe­ri­en­ce. I've ne­ver se­ar­c­hed an­y­body's be­lon­gings be­fo­re."

  "So?" I prod­ded.

  "I lo­oked for a box of bul­lets, anot­her gun, any kind of po­ison, that sort of thing. No luck." He ran his hand thro­ugh his thick blond ha­ir and didn't lo­ok to­ward Cha­se.

  "But you did find…"

  He shot me an ago­ni­zed glan­ce. "Jesus, prow­ling in pe­op­le's pri­va­te - "

  Again Cha­se star­ted to spe­ak, then sub­si­ded. It was no ti­me to be con­cer­ned abo­ut host-gu­est ni­ce­ti­es.

  "What did you find?" I hadn't ac­tu­al­ly ex­pec­ted

  the se­arch to be pro­duc­ti­ve. We we­ren't de­aling with a fo­ol. Still, our op­po­nent co­uldn't ha­ve pre­dic­ted an im­me­di­ate se­arch. If Cha­se had be­en kil­led, it wo­uld ha­ve ta­ken ho­urs for the aut­ho­ri­ti­es to ar­ri­ve and be­gin a for­mal, tho­ro­ugh in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on.

  Chase wat­c­hed, his fa­ce ex­p­res­si­on­less.

  Trevor sho­ok his he­ad, as if to cle­ar it. "A few things that mat­ter. Co­uld mat­ter. Not­hing to pro­ve they do. So­me co­ca­ine in Has­kell's ro­om. A let­ter in Lyle's bri­ef­ca­se, a job of­fer from Tri­ton TV…"

  "And?" I prom­p­ted.

  "Miranda's ta­king a lot of pills." He kept his eyes away from Cha­se.

  But I didn't.

  And I didn't miss the spasm of pa­in.

  7

  The wind was fres­he­ning.

  Trevor sha­ded his eyes to lo­ok out at the so­und. "Choppy."

  A gusty wind kic­ked up frothy whi­te­caps. High, thin clo­uds ra­ced ac­ross the gla­zed sky. Not the most ple­asant af­ter­no­on for an outing on a yacht, but Cha­se had be­en ada­mant. Sa­id he'd be dam­ned if he was go­ing to sit aro­und co­oped up with Tre­vor with not­hing to do.

  The Mi­ran­da B. 's mo­tors ro­ared to li­fe.

  I lif­ted my vo­ice. "Tre­vor, check the we­at­her re­ports. The­re was a hur­ri­ca­ne he­ading for Cu­ba. That's pro­bably why we're get­ting so­me hig­her

  waves.

  "Sure. Lis­ten, Hen­rie O…" From the dec­k­ho­use Cha­se ges­tu­red im­pa­ti­ently for Tre­vor to co­me abo­ard.

  Trevor held up a hand. "Co­ming! Just a se­cond." Then he tur­ned to me and sa­id swiftly, "I've got to talk to you. The­re's a Lloyd's of Lon­don po­licy that…"

  His words we­re drow­ned by the de­ep bo­om of the Mi­ran­da B.'s horn. It was thro­aty eno­ugh for an oce­an li­ner.

  "… Sted­man." The horn bo­omed aga­in. The law­yer shrug­ged in a ges­tu­re of frus­t­ra­ti­on and scram­b­led abo­ard.

  As the yacht plo­wed thro­ugh the whi­te­caps he­ading for the At­lan­tic si­de of the is­land, Cha­se po­ked his he­ad out a si­de win­dow and ga­ve me a vi­go­ro­us wa­ve, as if this we­re a ho­li­day outing on an or­di­nary day, not a tem­po­rary res­pi­te from sus­pi­ci­on and fe­ar. I lo­oked af­ter him with an up­wel­ling of ad­mi­ra­ti­on. I didn't lo­ve him. I ne­ver co­uld aga­in. But he had be­en an in­teg­ral part of my li­fe, and now he was fa­cing a ter­rif­ying si­tu­ati­on with ad­mi­rab­le com­po­su­re.

  I won­de­red what the law­yer had wan­ted to tell me. So­met­hing abo­ut an in­su­ran­ce po­licy. So­met­hing that con­cer­ned Lyle Sted­man? Sted­man was an em­p­lo­yee. What wo­uld he ha­ve to do with in­su­ran­ce for Cha­se?

  I wo­uld ha­ve to awa­it the yacht's re­turn to find out.

  But I had plenty to do, and I was glad I didn't ha­ve to worry abo­ut Cha­se whi­le I did it. He was sa­fe from harm, at le­ast for the du­ra­ti­on of his outing with Tre­vor, and I had the is­land's ner­vo­us in­ha­bi­tants to myself. I hur­ri­ed back to­ward the ho­use.

  Despite the wind rat­tling the pal­met­to fronds, I set­tled at a tab­le on the bre­ak­fast pa­tio. I had to for­ce

  myself to do it. I it­c­hed to set out-im­me­di­ately-to talk to each and every per­son on the is­land. The­re was so much to do, so much to be dis­co­ve­red, but I le­ar­ned a long ti­me ago that it's bet­ter to think be­fo­re you ap­pro­ach an ad­ver­sary.

  I stu­di­ed the she­af of han­d­w­rit­ten re­ports that pin­po­in­ted whe­re each per­son had be­en when the shots rang out. No one, un­for­tu­na­tely, had se­en an­yo­ne el­se grip­ping a "smo­king gun." Or any gun at all.

  Someone, of co­ur­se, was lying abo­ut his or her lo­ca­ti­on.

  Only Tre­vor and I had an ali­bi.

  I was still a lit­tle sur­p­ri­sed that no one had glim­p­sed so­me­one el­se when hur­rying to­ward the po­int. It did ref­lect the va­ri­ety of lo­ca­ti­ons on the is­land: the pi­er, the bo­at­ho­use, the gar­dens, the po­ol, the ho­use, the ten­nis co­urts, the track, the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters, the sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding, and the thic­kets that af­for­ded pri­vacy al­most ever­y­w­he­re. On­ce tho­se run­ning to­ward the po­int plun­ged in­to the ma­ri­ti­me fo­rest, they wo­uld be well hid­den from vi­ew.

  I re­vi­ewed each per­son's pur­por­ted lo­ca­ti­on. En­ri­que: chec­king pro­vi­si­ons on the Mi­ran­da

  B.

  Bur­ton: ne­ar the jog­ging track. Va­le­rie: sit­ting be­ne­ath an ar­bor in the ro­se

  garden stud­ying a script. Lyle: do­ing hand-over-hand on the mon­key

  bars ne­ar the track. Tre­vor: at the ten­nis co­urts with me. Has­kell:: flo­ating in the po­ol.

  Ro­ger: in the lib­rary re­ading Earth in the Ba­lan­ce,

  Mi­ran­da: we­eding in the herb gar­den bet­we­en the sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding and the ser­vants' qu­ar­ters.

  Ro­sa­lia: in the kit­c­hen. She ap­pa­rently didn't he­ar the shots al­t­ho­ugh Ro­ger, who was al­so in the ho­use, did.

  Betty: on the walk bet­we­en the sto­ra­ge bu­il­ding and the kit­c­hen.

  I now had a much cle­arer pic­tu­re of the lo­ca­ti­on of each sus­pect, and no re­ason to do­ubt an­yo­ne's word. Yet. But the re­ports we­re im­por­tant from anot­her as­pect. All han­d­w­rit­ten mis­si­ves tell you so­met­hing of the­ir aut­hors. En­ri­que's prin­ting was lar­ge, the let­ters so­mew­hat ir­re­gu­larly for­med, but they mar­c­hed ac­ross the pa­ge for­ce­ful­ly, ar­gu­ing a strong per­so­na­lity. Ro­sa­lia had tro­ub­le with J5s and Ps and might be dysle­xic. Wo­uld that in­di­ca­te she mightn't be all that ac­cu­ra­te
a mar­k­s­man? Betty's spel­ling was at­ro­ci­o­us, but she was the only one to em­p­ha­si­ze that the shots ca­me in such qu­ick suc­ces­si­on they co­uld scar­cely be co­un­ted. Bur­ton wro­te in tiny but le­gib­le script. I do­ubt if he'd ever ra­ised his hand in a clas­sro­om. Va­le­rie's flam­bo­yant script ref­lec­ted, not sur­p­ri­singly, a pen­c­hant for the dra­ma­tic. Her lit­tle dis­co­ur­se had style. Has­kell co­uldn't ke­ep to the li­ne: his wri­ting was po­orly for­med and er­ra­tic. Even wit­hin a sin­g­le word, an odd let­ter wo­uld be ca­pi­ta­li­zed or mis­sing or writ­ten twi­ce. In his ca­se I didn't fa­ult the scho­ol system but the mo­od-al­te­ring sub­s­tan­ces so com­mon on scho­ol gro­unds. Mi­ran­da's

  round, scho­ol­gir­lish script had as much per­so­na­lity as a mo­und of mas­hed po­ta­to­es. Cha­se wro­te so hard and fast the pen al­most pun­c­tu­red the she­et. Lyle scraw­led over­si­ze, thick-in­ked words that swag­ge­red ac­ross the pa­ge.

  I ca­me back to Betty's ill-spel­led, much-cros­sed-out-and-over ef­fort: "… s o hot I wuz miz­ra­bul, hot as a fur­ness. I hurd the shots, fast, fast, fast, fas­tur than korn pops…"

  I clo­sed my eyes for an in­s­tant, trying to pla­ce myself in the mind of the gun­man.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Why such a rush? Why not ta­ke anot­her se­cond or two, adj­ust the aim, re­act to the jolt of the gun? Why this pell-mell has­te when a lit­tle mo­re ti­me might ha­ve spel­led suc­cess?

  I ope­ned my eyes.

  I didn't li­ke the fe­eling se­eping thro­ugh me, the sen­se that the per­so­na­lity we so­ught was un­s­tab­le, im­pul­si­ve, un­dis­cip­li­ned.

  No. I must not con­fu­se has­te with di­sor­der.

  There was not­hing di­sor­derly in this at­tack ex­cept for the ra­pid fi­ring.

  Perhaps Cha­se had star­ted to turn to­ward the wo­ods, to­ward his at­tac­ker. That might ha­ve ac­co­un­ted for the hurry. A de­ter­mi­na­ti­on not to be se­en.

  That rang true with both epi­so­des. Ca­re and ef­fort we­re ex­pen­ded to le­ave not a sin­g­le tra­ce and to avo­id a di­rect con­f­ron­ta­ti­on. The mar­k­s­man was too ca­uti­o­us or too co­wardly to fa­ce the vic­tim, yet cle­ver eno­ugh to en­ti­rely chan­ge the met­hod of mur­der in the se­cond at­tempt.

  I had a tan­ta­li­zing sen­se that this was cri­ti­cal, that I was clo­se to un­der­s­tan­ding so­met­hing of the mind be­hind the po­iso­ning and the sho­oting.

  But it was elu­si­ve, not­hing I co­uld grasp and de­fi­ne.

  I ga­ve up on it. I had eno­ugh con­c­re­te work to do. And I was de­ter­mi­ned to con­duct the in­ter­vi­ew I'd had in mind when I he­aded to­ward the ten­nis co­urts that mor­ning.

  I wan­ted to talk to Mi­ran­da.

  Because, sad to say but true be­yond do­ubt, in the event of mur­der lo­ok first and lo­ok hard at the spo­use.

  Even one as yo­ung and lo­vely as Mi­ran­da.

  Perhaps es­pe­ci­al­ly one as yo­ung and lo­vely and nervy as Mi­ran­da.

  I didn't find her on any of the por­c­hes. She was not in the gar­dens or ne­ar the po­ol. I pa­used be­si­de the hot tub. The­re was so­met­hing fa­intly sic­ke­ning abo­ut the smell of chlo­ri­ne and the shush and gur­g­le of the fo­aming, ste­amy wa­ters. I lo­oked to­ward the lu­xu­ri­o­us wing whe­re she and Cha­se sta­yed.

  "Mrs. Col­lins, may I help?"^

  Roger Pres­cott still had his aura of inef­fab­le go­od hu­mor. But the­re was a wor­ri­ed lo­ok in his pa­le blue eyes and a gra­ve cast to his fa­ce.

  "I'm lo­oking for yo­ur step­mot­her." I ra­ised my vo­ice a lit­tle to be he­ard over the wa­ter bub­bling in the tub.

  He blin­ked, then ga­ve an odd la­ugh. "Actu­al­ly, I ne­ver think of Mi­ran­da as a step­mot­her. Ab­surd, re­al­ly. I'm al­most twi­ce her age."

  "But she is yo­ur step­mot­her." I wal­ked to­ward him. "I ne­ed to talk to her."

  His fa­ce crin­k­led. "She's pretty up­set. May­be I can help you. I to­ok her to her ro­om."

  But it was the­ir ro­om, Mi­ran­da's and Cha­se's.

  "She's got a pretty rot­ten he­adac­he." His vo­ice was-soft.

  How in­te­res­ting that Ro­ger was be­ing much mo­re pro­tec­ti­ve of his pretty yo­ung step­mot­her than Cha­se ap­pe­ared to be of his wi­fe.

  "Are yo­ur fat­her and Mi­ran­da ha­ving tro­ub­le?" I mo­ved to­ward the wet bar in the ar­bor and fis­hed a club so­da out of the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor.

  "I'd cer­ta­inly be fu­ri­o­us with him if I we­re her." His fa­ce fla­med as he re­ali­zed how that so­un­ded. "Oh, God, don't ta­ke that wrong. And I gu­ess I un­der­s­tand now. But ever sin­ce last month Dad's be­en a be­ast to her." He pul­led a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef from his poc­ket, pat­ted his mo­ist fa­ce. "God­damn we­at­her's li­ke a sa­una. He's ac­ted so fun­ny-I me­an, he can't pos­sibly think that Mi­ran­da-that's nuts, re­al­ly nuts. No, that can't be it. I know he didn't tell her abo­ut the po­iso­ning be­ca­use he didn't want to sca­re her. She's just a kid re­al­ly. She do­esn't know abo­ut ugly things."

  I kept my fa­ce blank. It's al­ways a mis­ta­ke, I co­uld ha­ve told him, to con­fu­se in­no­cen­ce with age. The­re are chil­d­ren who are pre­ter­na­tu­ral­ly wi­se and old folks who see with an­gel eyes.

  I drop­ped in­to a web­bed cha­ir. "Tell me abo­ut Mi­ran­da."

  "There isn't much to tell. Li­ke I sa­id, she's just a kid." His cha­ir cre­aked un­der his we­ight. "Lyle hi­red

  her. He fi­gu­red it wo­uld fit in with Dad's back-to-the-ba­sics edi­to­ri­al stuff. Yo­uth. In­no­cen­ce, An an­c­hor wit­ho­ut that sle­ek New York fas­hi­on-mo­del lo­ok. Dad ag­re­ed." He grin­ned but wit­ho­ut ma­li­ce. "Obvi­o­usly. I un­der­s­tand from Lyle that Dad as­ked to me­et Mi­ran­da be­ca­use he was im­p­res­sed with her work. Two months la­ter they got mar­ri­ed in St. Tho­mas."

  "It's a rat­her stri­king age dif­fe­ren­ce." I kept my vo­ice ne­ut­ral.

  But Ro­ger to­ok it as cri­ti­cism. He pul­led his cha­ir clo­ser to mi­ne and sa­id ear­nestly, "It's not the way you think it was. Pe­op­le just as­su­me Dad's a crad­le snat­c­her. I know for a fact - Lyle told me-that Dad was im­p­res­sed with her, but that wo­uld ha­ve be­en the end of it. Ex­cept for Mi­ran­da her­self! Lyle sa­id she fell for Dad li­ke a ton of bricks. He didn't go af­ter Mi­ran­da at all. It was Mi­ran­da who went af­ter him. But if you know an­y­t­hing abo­ut her past… Her mom di­ed when she was just a lit­tle girl-yo­un­ger than I was when my mot­her di­ed and that's to­ugh - and Mi­ran­da's dad ra­ised her. I gu­ess he must ha­ve be­en a gre­at fat­her. Po­or kid, she lost him, too. Last ye­ar. An­y­way, when Mi­ran­da met Dad, it was li­ke so­me­body tos­sed Star­dust in her eyes. She was ob­ses­sed with him. And, hell, how co­uld any man turn her down? I wish I had just a lit­tle of Dad's ma­gic. Wha­te­ver it is."

  I co­uld ha­ve told him. I met Cha­se when I was her age and Cha­se was yo­ung and vib­rant with the un­mis­ta­kab­le, se­duc­ti­ve aura of a win­ner. But it wo­uldn't ha­ve ma­de Ro­ger fe­el any bet­ter.

  "You don't se­em to mind."

  "Mind? Mind what?"

  "Having such a yo­ung step­mot­her." I re­ac­hed over to drop the so­da bot­tle in a was­te­bas­ket.

  He ga­ve me an en­de­aring smi­le. "Hen­rie O, I li­ke Mi­ran­da-and I want Dad to be happy." His eyes dar­ke­ned. "The only prob­lem Dad and I ha­ve is that we don't ag­ree on an­y­t­hing abo­ut how he runs his pa­pers. God, he co­uld do so much go­od. But we all know they be­long to him. Not me."

  He se­emed ob­li­vi­o­us to the ob­vi­o­us next step. "They will be yo­urs so­me­day, won't they?"

  "Oh, ye­ah, but Dad's in gre­at sha­pe.
He's - " His eyes nar­ro­wed. "Oh, now, wa­it a mi­nu­te. You think I'd po­ison my own dad, sho­ot him down so I co­uld con­t­rol the edi­to­ri­al po­li­ci­es of his new­s­pa­pers? No

  way. I'm not in­to pat­ri­ci­de. Not for any damn rea-

  son.

  I left him lo­oking af­ter me with an ex­p­res­si­on of hurt. I know the con­c­lu­si­on I was sup­po­sed to draw: This go­od fel­low, this rig­ht-thin­king ag­re­e­ab­le son, was too open, too di­sar­ming, too ear­nest to be con­si­de­red a sus­pect.

  Maybe. May­be not.