Dead Man's Island

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Chase's gun is mis­sing. I co­uldn't find it an­y­w­he­re this mor­ning."

  I mo­ti­oned for Betty to stand up, flas­hed the light whe­re she'd be­en sit­ting, then step­ped past En­ri­que to in­ves­ti­ga­te the ma­ro­on vel­vet dra­pes. I to­ok my ti­me over the bo­ards, tes­ting them to be cer­ta­in one wasn't lo­ose-with a gun be­hind it.

  "Christ." Lyle swung off the cha­ir, then pic­ked it up and slam­med it on the flo­or to get at­ten­ti­on. "Okay, ever­y­body, on yo­ur fe­et. In­s­te­ad of Who's Got the Thim­b­le, we're pla­ying a grown-up ver­si­on, Who's Got Cha­se's Gun. First ru­le, stand whe­re you are and don't mo­ve un­til Hen­rie checks you out. Any sud­den mo­ve­ments may re­sult in a bro­ken back -I play rugby and I won't tac­k­le you for the fun of it."

  Out of the cor­ner of my eye I saw even Ro­sa­lia scram­b­le to her fe­et. Ever­yo­ne was stan­ding now, in­c­lu­ding Va­le­rie by the pi­ano.

  I wasn't su­re whet­her to be ir­ri­ta­ted or amu­sed. But it was ef­fec­ti­ve, I'd gi­ve Lyle that. May­be the di­rect way, in this in­s­tan­ce, was best. I sup­po­se I do ha­ve a ten­dency to be ser­pen­ti­ne. And it didn't es­ca­pe my no­ti­ce that he was stan­ding gu­ard whi­le I did the se­ar­c­hing, the act of a man with not­hing to fe­ar or the

  ploy of a man who knew the gun wo­uld turn up but wan­ted to fo­cus sus­pi­ci­on on the ot­hers.

  I pul­led the scre­en away from the fi­rep­la­ce, got down on one knee, and cra­ned my he­ad to lo­ok up in­to the chim­ney. It was tho­ro­ughly nasty, not ha­ving be­en de­sig­ned to re­pel the kind of ra­in we we­re en­du­ring. Wa­ter ran in drib­lets down the si­des. Po­ols of black go­o­ey gunk we­re col­lec­ting be­ne­ath the an­di­ron. I yan­ked my he­ad back and mo­ti­oned for Betty to bring me one of the ex­t­ra two-by-fo­urs lying ne­ar the win­dows.

  I stuck the plank up in­to the in­te­ri­or of the fi­rep­la­ce and prod­ded the shel­ving whe­re the chim­ney wi­de­ned.

  All I got was mo­re gunk.

  When I wrig­gled back and sto­od on the he­arth, hol­ding the two-by-fo­ur, Va­le­rie cal­led out in a por­ten­to­us vo­ice, "And what can the Wic­ked Witch of the West tell us abo­ut our fu­tu­re?"

  "Santa Cla­us won't be co­ming down this chim­ney. Mo­re than that I can­not say." I prop­ped the bo­ard aga­inst the fi­rep­la­ce. Next I chec­ked the tab­le. It to­ok only a mo­ment to be cer­ta­in that no gun was hid­den be­ne­ath a fold of cloth.

  In qu­ick suc­ces­si­on I ex­p­lo­red the cur­ta­ins of the se­cond win­dow, aga­in yan­king and tug­ging on the bo­ards, ope­ned the cor­ner chi­na ca­bi­net, pul­led up the cus­hi­ons of the two co­uc­hes along the north wall, in­c­lu­ding the one whe­re Tre­vor had res­ted.

  "Trevor, if you'll pull the co­uc­hes out from the wall…"

  He did, and I chec­ked out that area.

  "Now lift up one end of this one…"

  The ho­use­ke­eping on the is­land was cer­ta­inly spec­ta­cu­lar. Not a scrap of pa­per, a Kle­enex, or a pen lay on the flo­or whe­re the co­uch had sat. And dit­to for the se­cond one.

  "Thanks, Tre­vor."

  The law­yer put down the se­cond co­uch, rub­bed his back, then gla­red at me. "I gu­ess I can sit down aga­in, can't I?"

  "Sure." I ge­ne­ral­ly wa­ved a hand aro­und the ro­om. "Thanks, Lyle. At ease, ever­y­body. No gun, so we can all re­lax a-"

  Valerie lif­ted the lid of the pi­ano. "Hot, hot, hot," she cri­ed, po­in­ting with a crim­son-tip­ped fo­re­fin­ger.

  Lyle and I re­ac­hed the pi­ano to­get­her.

  I ma­de a qu­ick de­ci­si­on - con­se­qu­en­ces be dam­ned-and grab­bed the we­apon that res­ted on the strings of the pi­ano. I lo­oked up at Lyle. "Thanks, I'll ta­ke ca­re of it."

  "I'm su­re you will. And you've ef­fec­ti­vely des­t­ro­yed any fin­ger­p­rints on it." His glan­ce was cold and tho­ug­h­t­ful.

  "What are the odds the­re we­re any?" I wasn't go­ing to worry abo­ut fin­ger­p­rints; I was glad simply to ha­ve the we­apon in hand. My hand.

  It was eit­her the gun Cha­se had had in the li­ving ro­om on Fri­day or its twin, a.32 Smith Wes­son re­vol­ver. I re­le­ased the bar­rel latch to check the fi­ve-shot cylin­der. It was full. I clo­sed the latch and sho­ved the gun in­to the poc­ket of my slacks. A lar­ge patch poc­ket, for­tu­na­tely. Pro­bably de­sig­ned for gar­de­ning to­ols. It ser­ved splen­didly for a re­vol­ver.

  Valerie ga­ve an ela­bo­ra­te shrug. "Sorry I didn't

  detect a fal­se no­te as I pla­yed, but what the hey! I'm only an ac­t­ress, not Miss Mar­p­le."

  "Anyone co­uld ha­ve put the gun the­re," I sa­id crisply. But it cer­ta­inly un­der­s­co­red the re­ality that Va­le­rie must ha­ve be­en ab­sent from the pi­ano at so­me ti­me du­ring the mor­ning.

  In any event, I felt the gun was al­most an omen. At le­ast the mur­de­rer wasn't ar­med. And, if not a shar­p­s­ho­oter, I am ade­qu­ate with a han­d­gun.

  I sho­uld ha­ve re­mem­be­red the old war­ning that pos­ses­sing a gun is only me­anin­g­ful if you are wil­ling to sho­ot.

  But I wasn't thin­king abo­ut sho­oting. The gun was sa­fely in my poc­ket, and now I felt free to be­gin my re­al qu­est.

  Valerie slip­ped back on­to the pi­ano bench. Her fin­gers gently to­uc­hed the keys. A hymn this ti­me: "Ne­arer My God to Thee." Her eyes ga­zed off un­see-ingly. I wis­hed I was clo­se eno­ugh to lo­ok in­to the­ir depths. But her fa­ce lo­oked tran­qu­il.

  Roger still sto­od by the si­de­bo­ard, fil­ling his pla­te. He ate sto­lidly, se­emingly vo­ra­ci­o­usly hungry.

  Lyle re­tur­ned to his stra­ight cha­ir, strad­dled it aga­in, his chin res­ting on his arms atop the ra­il. But his air of le­as­hed strength bet­ra­yed that this man was re­ady to res­pond, wha­te­ver hap­pe­ned.

  Enrique le­aned aga­inst the wall, ne­ar the bo­ar­ded-over win­dows, his arms fol­ded tightly aga­inst his chest. His eyes we­re on me, and they we­re sul­len.

  Rosalia set­tled back down be­si­de Bur­ton.

  Of them all, ob­vi­o­usly I trus­ted the ho­use­ke­eper the most. Or dis­t­rus­ted her the le­ast. This mur­de­rer

  made qu­ick de­ci­si­ons. I do­ub­ted if Ro­sa­lia had be­en ca­pab­le of a de­ci­si­on sin­ce she mar­ri­ed En­ri­que.

  And the­re was Mi­ran­da to con­si­der. Af­ter Cha­se's mur­der, Va­le­rie had led the yo­ung wi­dow off and put her to bed, le­aving her to rest. But if Bur­ton had go­ne down to see Mi­ran­da, co­uld she ha­ve ri­sen, fo­und an ex­cu­se to ac­com­pany him to the study, and struck him down?

  Oh, yes. She co­uld ha­ve.

  Then, stric­ken not' so much by re­mor­se as by des­pa­ir-the hus­band she'd sla­in thro­ugh je­alo­usy, the sec­re­tary at­tac­ked in fran­tic self-pro­tec­ti­on, the storm that ter­ri­fi­ed her-Mi­ran­da might ha­ve gob­bled down the pills, se­eking ob­li­vi­on from pa­in and fe­ar.

  No, I co­uldn't le­ave Mi­ran­da out of my cal­cu­la­ti­ons.

  Or Betty.

  Betty was back in her pla­ce aga­inst the wall, her arms loc­ked aro­und her up­right kne­es, her he­ad res­ting on her arms. Betty mis­sed very lit­tle, yet she de­ni­ed gi­ving tho­ught to her sur­ro­un­dings and the pe­op­le for whom she wor­ked. That in­te­res­ted me. And Betty had ob­vi­o­usly had the op­por­tu­nity to club Bur­ton. In fact, I might ha­ve gi­ven her that op­por­tu­nity when I sent her to find him.

  Who el­se co­uld ha­ve do­ne it?

  I pre­pa­red a tray: empty mugs, a ther­mos of cof­fee, su­gar, cfe­am, so­me co­oki­es, se­ve­ral pi­eces of Bundt ca­ke.

  My first stop was the pi­ano. If I lis­te­ned hard, I co­uld he­ar it des­pi­te the scre­am of the
wind.

  Valerie pla­yed the fi­nis­hing chords of "Ama­zing

  Grace," then lo­oked at me co­ol­ly. "From gun hun­ting to hos­tes­sing. My, you're ver­sa­ti­le. But, su­re, I'd li­ke a cup. What's the pri­ce?"

  "Some ob­ser­va­ti­ons. Cre­am? Su­gar?"

  "Both. Lots."

  I was ge­ne­ro­us.

  She to­ok the ste­aming mug, sip­ped ap­pre­ci­ati­vely. "I co­uld de­fi­ni­tely play a he­ro­ine in a tum­b­ril go­ing to the gu­il­lo­ti­ne. Wren­c­hed from lu­xury- that's pu­re cre­am, you know, as ra­re to­day as milk in bot­tles-bo­und to the world by strings of silk and won­de­ring what li­es ahe­ad. Ever­y­t­hing. Not­hing. Yes, I'd li­ke that ro­le."

  I sip­ped my cof­fee. "What's the ro­le you'll ha­ve in yo­ur next play?"

  My light to­ne didn't fo­ol Va­le­rie, but the hand lif­ting the mug didn't wa­ver.

  In fact, she flic­ked me an amu­sed glan­ce. "You me­an in the play that's go­ing to be ban­k­rol­led by Cha­se's es­ta­te, pur­su­ant to his ge­ne­ro­us pro­mi­se at his fi­nal fa­mily din­ner?"

  "Yes. I'm su­re Ro­ger will ho­nor his fat­her's wis­hes." I ate a cu­cum­ber tea san­d­wich and won­de­red what had pos­ses­sed Ro­sa­lia to fix tea san­d­wic­hes. It was de­li­ci­o­us.

  "I'm su­re of it, too. Or I wo­uld be if I we­re sit­ting on dry land right now." She fle­xed her fin­gers, ran them up the sca­le. "And, be­li­eve me, if I we­re smart eno­ugh to en­gi­ne­er mo­ney for this play, I'd cer­ta­inly be too smart to get stuck on an is­land li­ke this."

  It al­ways ca­me back to that. Why wo­uld Cha­se's mur­de­rer ma­ro­on all of us on the is­land in the path of

  a hur­ri­ca­ne? If I un­der­s­to­od that and dis­co­ve­red what Bur­ton knew abo­ut the shots…

  "… cle­ar to me," Va­le­rie was sa­ying tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, "that only two pe­op­le are abo­ve sus­pi­ci­on -you and Tre­vor. An­yo­ne el­se he­re co­uld ha­ve shot at Cha­se. An­yo­ne co­uld ha­ve bo­oby-trap­ped the tub. This mor­ning an­yo­ne co­uld ha­ve struck down that hor­rid lit­tle man." Her hand struck se­ve­ral dir­ge­li­ke chords. She lo­oked ac­ross the ro­om to­ward the mat­tres­ses. The fi­ne li­nes at the ed­ges of her eyes de­epe­ned. "Did you find what hit Bur­ton?"

  I sto­od qu­ite still. But, of co­ur­se, she hadn't co­me to the study.

  Or was that the po­int she was ma­king?

  Was I de­aling with an ho­nest wo­man or an ex­t­re­mely cle­ver one?

  I lo­oked at her blandly. "The po­ker from the fi­rep­la­ce was lying be­si­de him."

  She shud­de­red. "God, can you ima­gi­ne-think how a po­ker fe­els in yo­ur hand, he­avy and smo­oth and cold. Think of ra­ising it and swin­ging down hard, how that wo­uld fe­el, and the so­und… Oh, Jesus, the so­und! Po­or lit­tle man."

  If it was Va­le­rie's hand that had lif­ted the mar­b­le sta­tu­et­te and swung it down on­to flesh and bo­ne, she was a con­sum­ma­te ac­t­ress.

  But the one thing I knew abo­ut her was that she waj a con­sum­ma­te ac­t­ress.

  I swal­lo­wed anot­her gulp of the hot, sharp Fren­ch-ro­ast cof­fee. "I know you we­re ab­sor­bed in yo­ur mu­sic, but do you ha­ve any idea if the ot­hers who we­re he­re-say bet­we­en ni­ne o'clock and ten - left for any pe­ri­od of ti­me?"

  Her right hand pic­ked out harshly in sin­g­le no­tes "Three Blind Mi­ce." "Be ni­ce if I co­uld ali­bi so­me­one, wo­uldn't it?" Her mo­uth twis­ted in a sar­do­nic smi­le. "Be ni­ce sin­ce it wo­uld gi­ve me an ali­bi, too. But you're out of luck. Pe­op­le we­re in and out." She shot a ve­no­mo­us lo­ok in En­ri­que's di­rec­ti­on. "He can't gi­ve his wi­fe a hand -with car­rying up the fo­od and wa­ter, but he damn su­re ma­na­ged to slip out him­self and co­me back a half ho­ur or so la­ter, plenty fat aro­und the mid­dle."

  I, too, glan­ced to­ward En­ri­que. Yes, his shirt did blo­use out aro­und his wa­ist.

  "That's not cel­lu­li­te," the ac­t­ress draw­led. "In fact, ho­ney, I'll bet you that's a mo­ney belt, and it might be pretty in­te­res­ting to know whe­re he got it- and when."

  "I'll find out."

  She til­ted her he­ad, pla­yed a few bars from "The Pink Pan­t­her." "Dam­ned if I don't think you will, Hen­rie O. Just for the re­cord, why do you ca­re?" Her to­ne was amu­sed, with just the fa­in­test un­der­to­ne of ad­mi­ra­ti­on.

  I fi­nis­hed my cof­fee, put it down, and pic­ked up the tray. "Why not?" I re­tor­ted. "And al­so for the re­cord, when did you le­ave the mu­sic ro­om?"

  "Bitch." But her to­ne was ge­ni­al. "Su­re, I left. A co­up­le of ti­mes." On­ce aga­in her eyes mo­ved ac­ross the ro­om. "For what it's worth, I don't li­ke to see any li­ving thing hurt. Not cats or dogs. Not even bugs. Cer­ta­inly not hu­mans."

  "Right." As I mo­ved away from the pi­ano, I re­min­ded myself that Va­le­rie was an ac­t­ress, a su­perb

  one. Had so­me­one el­se for­got­ten that and lost his li­fe as a con­se­qu­en­ce?

  I of­fe­red Ro­ger the san­d­wich tray.

  "No mo­re, thanks." He shot a he­si­tant lo­ok at me and cle­ared his thro­at. "You knew my dad pretty well, didn't you? A long ti­me ago."

  "Yes, Ro­ger." Oh, yes, so well. But per­haps ne­ver well eno­ugh.

  "When you we­re yo­ung." He lo­oked un­com­for­tab­le. "I me­an -I don't me­an…"

  I la­ug­hed. It was ni­ce, it was won­der­ful, to ha­ve a re­ason to la­ugh. My self-es­te­em has ne­ver be­en ke­yed to age. "Ro­ger, I'm an old lady-and glad eno­ugh to be one. I'd enj­oy be­ing one a bit lon­ger. Lo­ok at it this way, ever­yo­ne's ni­ne­te­en only on­ce. Or thir­ty-two. Or for­ty-six. Or wha­te­ver. Fa­ir eno­ugh, right?"

  Obviously, my la­ug­h­ter eased his mind. He even ma­na­ged an un­cer­ta­in grin in re­turn.

  "Please." And now his plea was open, una­bas­hed. "Tell me, what was Dad li­ke when he was yo­ung?"

  "Exciting." I co­uld he­ar the ec­ho of yo­uth in my vo­ice, lig­h­ter and hig­her than usu­al.

  My an­s­wer was ho­nest. I wasn't na­ive eno­ugh to think that Ro­ger had to be in­no­cent be­ca­use he as­ked abo­ut Cha­se. Ro­ger ap­pe­ared to be rat­her in­no­cent and open, but that wo­uld be a use­ful gu­ise to adopt, sho­uld he in­s­te­ad be de­vi­o­us and cal­cu­la­ting. And he co­uld ha­ve lo­ved his fat­her and still ha­ted him eno­ugh to be his mur­de­rer and yet, on one le­vel of his be­ing, hun­ger to know mo­re abo­ut the man who had both gi­ven him li­fe and rut­h­les­sly sha­ped that li­fe.

  A clat­ter on the ro­of bro­ught every he­ad up.

  Lyle grip­ped the back of the stra­ight cha­ir. "One

  of the chim­neys is go­ing." Ro­sa­lia put her hands to her fa­ce. Va­le­rie's hands ca­me down hard on the keys. The mu­sic en­ded in a dis­cor­dant crash.

  Again I had the sen­se of ur­gency, of ti­me run­ning out. But if the end was co­ming so­on, so so­on, I might as well spend so­me of tho­se fi­nal mi­nu­tes res­pon­ding to a hu­man ne­ed. So I told Ro­ger abo­ut Cha­se's vi­gor -"He co­uld work all day, play po­ker half the night, and co­ver a tra­in wreck at three the next mor­ning. He was a go­od wri­ter. That's what most pe­op­le don't men­ti­on now. They con­cen­t­ra­te on how he bu­ilt an em­pi­re, the bat­tles he fo­ught to be­at down com­pe­ti­tors, buy up the best ta­lent, cor­ner mar­kets. But he was a hell of a go­od wri­ter."

  Roger's fa­ce was puz­zled. "I can he­ar in yo­ur vo­ice that you ca­red for him, re­al­ly ca­red. Why didn't it work out?"

  I hadn't re­ali­zed I was so tran­s­pa­rent. But this was the rock-bot­tom qu­es­ti­on, the qu­es­ti­on I wo­uld ne­ver an­s­wer for Ro­ger. It was the jud­g­ment I'd ma­de so many ye­ars ago: Cha­se was bril­li­ant and cre­a
ti­ve and enor­mo­usly gif­ted, han­d­so­me and en­ter­ta­ining and in­c­re­dibly dis­cip­li­ned-and he was a man wit­ho­ut prin­cip­le.

  But I didn't ha­ve to an­s­wer.

  The de­ep, ca­ver­no­us, en­ve­lo­ping ro­ar of the wind was now a part of our be­ing. We did not so much ig­no­re it as un­qu­es­ti­oningly ac­cept it, ex­pect it. For ho­urs the ho­use had qu­ive­red and sha­ken, mo­aned and rat­tled.

  But the fi­nal on­s­la­ught still ca­me as a shock.

  An ab­rupt, he­art-stop­ping, mind-num­bing shock.