Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01

by Dead Man's Island

  I wondered how that description would strike Frank Hudson. And I didn’t miss the little sting in the tail of Burton’s panegyric.

  The secretary prattled on. “It’s a brilliant arrangement. But, of course, Mr. Prescott specializes in brilliance, as I’m sure you are aware, being such an old amie.” His oyster-gray eyes slid toward me, curious and expectant.

  I didn’t ante. “It’s been a number of years since Mr. Prescott and I have seen each other.”

  Every word Burton uttered made me further regret my decision to come here. I despise ostentation.

  Now I should be clear. I do enjoy luxury, but I prefer it to be luxury within decent bounds. Thorstein Veblen understood conspicuous consumption; the 1890s in the United States was the heyday of the vulgar display of riches. Until now. One hundred years later greed still runs rampant. Today’s CEOs receive obscenely bloated paychecks even as businesses and industries scramble to “downsize,” a comfortable euphemism for the wholesale firing of middle management.

  Prescott Island was not my kind of place. I would have preferred Dead Man’s Island, with its four families.

  We had reached the gardens. The scent of roses swirled around me, a thick, sweet, heady perfume. And hot—only Houston or Calcutta could be more oppressive. I was awash with sweat.

  “I’m sure you’d like to have a chance to rest from your journey.” The secretary’s voice had the jolly assurance of a ward nurse. I itched to tell him so. “I’ll take you to your room. Mr. Prescott would like for you to join him in his study in an hour.” He glanced at his watch and said precisely, “That will be at seven minutes after five.”

  I paused—we had just reached the central fountain—and looked at the open-air porches. There were three: one a living area, another obviously a breakfast nook, and a third, the closest to the swimming pool, a leisure lanai with hammocks and deck furniture. All were unoccupied.

  The air was so hot it shimmered. I recognized another scent threaded through that of the roses, the faint, acrid stink of insecticide. That figured. Otherwise, this idyllic retreat would be uninhabitable. I doubted that even heavy spraying would prevent swarms of mosquitoes at dusk.

  No insects.

  And no people.

  “Where is everyone?”

  Burton Andrews blinked, then looked about and gave a twittery laugh. “Eh bien, it does seem deserted, doesn’t it? But that’s the charm of Prescott Island, Mrs. Collins. So different from life on the mainland, where it’s people, people everywhere. Here we are far from the vale of tears that is the world. And”—his voice became more matter-of-fact—“it’s terribly hot this time of day. Guests are encouraged to do what they wish, when they wish. Mrs. Prescott presides over tea every afternoon in the living room. Inside, of course. With the air-conditioning. I’m sure some of the guests are with her now. Others may be resting, walking—” He looked around. “Well, of course, the heat!” He shifted my larger case from his left hand to his right. I had my carry-on piece. “But Mr. Prescott told me to take you straight to your room, to give you a chance to relax and—”

  So Chase wanted me whisked to my room. Why? So I wouldn’t meet any of my fellow sojourners until after I’d talked with him? What difference could it make? I had no idea. I would make every effort to figure it out, but first things first.

  “Thanks,” I said briskly, “but I’d like to meet my hostess—and tea sounds wonderful.” I handed him my carry-on. “Just drop the bags by my room. I’ll find my way there later.”

  “But Mr. Prescott—”

  “Oh, I’ll see Chase in his study. At seven minutes after five. Now”—I shaded my eyes—“that looks like a main door. Merci beaucoup for your help, Mr. Andrews.” And I started up the path.

  Burton scrambled after me. “Mrs. Collins, your room—I’ll show you—I can have refreshment brought to you. You needn’t take tea today—”

  “I prefer to join the others.” I favored him with a steely glance and marched ahead of him up the steps and into the main hall.

  Burton wasn’t happy about it, but he pointed me in the right direction for the living room and started up the stairs with my luggage, pausing; every step or so in the vain hope, I suppose, that I might change my mind. Worthier men than he have tried to deflect me from a chosen course. Without, I might add, the slightest bit of success.

  In the cool, shadowy entrance hall I paused to look in the magnificent ormolu mirror that reflected a Ming vase, a Rodin sculpture, a William Merritt Chase seascape, and the staircase. I smoothed back a strand of hair, straightened my travel-crumpled aquamarine smooth-weave cotton dress, and watched until Burton’s pants cuffs and shiny brown cordovans finally disappeared from the mirror. Then I set out in search of my hostess.

  I favor comfortable shoes. These were crepe-soled and silent. I reached the open double doorway and had an uninterrupted moment to survey the scene and those who had arrived on this island before me.

  That’s when I got my first surprise. Burton had indicated that Chase’s wife presided over tea. I dredged a name from my memory. Miranda Prescott. But this must be a granddaughter, a slim girl in a watercolor-pastel dress as delicate and shimmering as sunlight on water. The round shawl collar with an organdy bow recalled the elegance of long-ago fetes or canoes gliding on moonlit canals. Raven-black hair curled softly to frame a heart-shaped face. She sat behind the magnificent George III tea service, pouring with the care and precision of a little girl playing house, her face absorbed, her gestures—

  Light from the chandeliers caught the fire and brilliance of the rings on her slender left hand.

  Wedding rings.

  I felt a surge of dismay. She was so young. Too young. Dismay and disappointment. In Chase. I would not have expected this of him.

  I scanned the others in the opulent room: a hard-faced woman with too much makeup but an aristocratic air; an extraordinarily handsome young man with sullen, downturned lips; a chunky mid-fortyish fellow with cherubic cheeks and a genial smile; a tightly coiled, bold-featured redhead who had A-type stamped all over him; and an exquisitely groomed blond man my mother would have tartly deemed too smooth by half.

  I stepped inside, calling out a cheery hello. Everyone looked my way, and the men hurriedly got to their feet.

  Reporters are accustomed to evoking odd responses. It comes with the territory. Even so, Miranda Prescott’s reaction was outside the norm.

  My young hostess became absolutely immobile, her face rigid, her slender body taut. She looked steeled to confront enormous challenge. But when she saw me, her eyes widened and her mouth curved into a soundless O of surprise.

  That she had expected someone entirely different was abundantly clear.

  “Mrs. Collins?” Her girlish voice rose in disbelief.

  “Yes. But, please, call me Henrie O. Everyone does. And do sit down, gentlemen.”

  But the men, even the sulky, bored youth, waited politely until I’d taken a seat next to my hostess. An interesting social custom, and one that can provide endless diversion upon discussion. Should women be treated with deference? Or, in fact, is this actually a show of respect or is it more truly a subtle indicator that men are all-powerful, choosing to honor the “weaker” sex?

  Miranda struggled for words. “Mrs. Collins … Mrs. Collins, you are … How nice you’ve arrived in time for tea.”

  “I’m glad, too.” I accepted a cup and glanced around. This was an enormously comfortable room, the kind of comfort easily secured when cost is no question. As a young reporter, I spent some time doing “house” features. I would have described this living room as “perfect for entertaining in a casual, relaxed manner.”

  But there was nothing relaxed about our hostess this afternoon. As everyone resettled, Miranda offered me delectable sandwiches: watercress, smoked salmon, egg salad. She managed a social smile, but it did nothing to hide the misery in her vulnerable dark blue eyes. There was definitely something very wrong here. It showed in the slight tremble of those be
autifully manicured, girlish hands, such soft unworn hands, and in the unhappy droop of her gentle mouth.

  Nervy. That’s an old-fashioned word, but it says it all, a mixture of fear and uncertainty and anxiety.

  I couldn’t for the life of me trace her uneasiness to a source. It was more than my unanticipated arrival. Certainly it couldn’t be the surroundings. The living room itself was delightful, comfortable chairs and sofas upholstered in a chintz pattern of a vase with rosebuds that was repeated in the drapes. Cheerful rose-and-white-striped silk covered another sofa and the comfortable easy chairs. Red velvet straight chairs echoed the crimson lacquer of a coffee table. The needlepoint carpet featured squares of lush roses mixed with peonies. A vivid Matisse garden scene hung on one wall, a Dufy beach view on another. The red Bohemian glass of the twin chandeliers sparkled like Chianti in sunlight.

  But nervy the young wife was. I paid close attention as she made the introductions.

  Valerie St. Vincent—“No doubt you’ve seen her onstage, Mrs. Collins. One of Broadway’s great stars.”

  Platinum hair framed smooth, controlled features, but it was the coldness of Ms. St. Vincent’s blue eyes that I noticed. They briefly touched me. She made no effort to disguise the look of total, chilling disinterest, despite her reputed theatrical abilities.

  I gave Valerie St. Vincent a gimlet look. I don’t like to be dismissed. So, without a smile, I said briskly, “I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure.” I had, of course. Her Lady Macbeth had been an unforgettable tour de force. “But I have a tendency to remember the leads, not character actors. Hello, Miss St….” I paused. “… Velman, is it?”

  If looks could kill—

  I flashed the actress my most charming smile.

  Haskell Lee—“Chase’s stepson.”

  The sulky, gorgeous youngster. Haskell must be the son of Chase’s second wife, Carrie Lee, who had died several years ago in an accident.

  “Haskell gave up a tennis tournament to be with us.” Miranda’s lips curved into a meaningless smile that her stepson—so young, yet older than she—didn’t bother to return. “He works in Chase’s Atlanta office.”

  I doubted that Haskell was integral to the success of Prescott Communications. This handsome youth (he must have been a very young child when his mother married Chase) looked much too indolent to excel in anything, except perhaps social tennis. Obviously wishing he was elsewhere, he sprawled back against the chintz cushions, tanned and well-muscled. He popped a tea sandwich in his mouth and managed a barely civil nod. Then he shifted petulantly in his seat and reached for his drink in its cut-glass tumbler. No tea for him.

  Miranda hurried ahead with her introductions.

  Roger Prescott—“Chase’s son. I know you and Roger will enjoy each other. Roger is a writer, too.”

  Roger was as unlike his father as possible. He was blond, stocky, red-faced, and overweight. But he gave me a spontaneous, cheerful smile. “I write polemics. Critics sometimes describe them as diatribes. How about you?”

  I grinned back at him. “Used to be a reporter. Now I write thrillers.”

  “What’s the difference?” It was a sardonic drawl, but not offensive.

  “In my fiction I have to tone everything down. I could give you facts that no one would ever believe.” I spoke lightly enough, but I wasn’t kidding.

  “I would believe them.” Roger Prescott leaned forward, his pale blue eyes ablaze with sudden emotion. “Did you know, Mrs. Collins, that if we continue our present environmental policies one-fourth of all plant and animal species existent in the mid-eighties will be extinct in twenty-five years? Did you know that air pollution from cars costs the United States forty billion dollars a year in health care? Did you know that cigarette smoking kills more people every year than all other diseases, including AIDS, yet our government continues to support tobacco farming? Did you know that—”

  “Now, Roger, let me introduce everyone.” It was said so charmingly that it had no sting, and Roger gave Miranda an indulgent smile. “Mrs. Collins, this is Lyle Stedman.”

  “Lyle Stedman—Lyle’s also from the Atlanta office.”

  Stedman radiated power. There was a sense of strength barely contained despite his relaxed posture, a superbly muscled arm along the back of the couch, feet crossed. I was confident Lyle Stedman would react quickly to challenge, physical or mental. He was instantly noticeable, red hair so dark and bright it glittered like a sun-splashed ruby, a hard-bitten face with a bold nose and a blunt chin, a big chest and muscular legs, large strong hands.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Mrs. Collins.” Stedman’s voice was deep and assertive, “How many National Press Club awards do you have?”

  I was surprised he knew of me. I judged him to be on the young side of thirty. “One of the fruits of longevity is establishing a reputation you may not deserve, Mr. Stedman.”

  He chuckled deep in his throat and his eyes assessed me shrewdly. “Well, you’ve established a hell of one.”

  “I’ll do my best to live it down.”

  “Mrs. Collins, this is Trevor Dunnaway.” Miranda was regaining some composure. I was glad. There is nothing so painful as the open distress of the very young. “Trevor is the general counsel for Chase.” She looked at him with a touch of awe.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lyle Stedman’s self-assured mouth crook in disdain.

  Everything about Trevor Dunnaway spelled success. From the confident tilt of his head to his carefully manicured nails and expensive; and perfectly fitted sports clothes, Dunnaway was definitely a Monday’s child. The attorney’s features were regular and strong, his hair thick and blond. His blue eyes were good-humored and his mouth curved easily into a generous smile. “Airs. Collins, this is a real treat. I read your last book, Casablanca Course. It’s what we called a ripping good read when I was a boy.” A faint remnant of a British accent was overlaid by many years in America. “You’ve certainly seen a lot of the world, haven’t you?”

  I am not immune to charm, and Dunnaway didn’t lay it on too thick, but I wondered, behind my modest smile, whether this young man automatically flattered everyone he met, or whether this was a special effort for me. And, if so, why?

  “Enough to question most verities, Mr. Dunnaway.” I turned away and smiled at my hostess. “These scones are delicious.” Which, of course, resulted in the offer of more. I do have a weakness for scones and tea sandwiches. My plate replenished, I smiled a great deal, sipped the hot Darjeeling from the Capo di Monte cup, made an occasional comment, and studied my fellow sojourners.

  Valerie St. Vincent exhibited a regal charm for the benefit of Lyle Stedman, and he politely discussed New York theater with her. But his eyes probed every face in turn, seeking an answer for a question I didn’t know. Miranda listened, with an occasional horrified exclamation, to Roger Prescott’s impassioned indictment of medical experimentation on animals and the cruelties involved. “So you think cats and dogs run away from home? Let me tell you what really happens, Miranda.” Trevor Dunnaway lightly regaled me with his recent tribulations during a polo match. “So that was the end of it for my second horse. I mounted the third and was just out on the field when the cinch slipped and …” It was done with a rueful smile and a great deal of modesty. Of course.

  Nothing especially riveting about any of it. It was pleasant, undistinguished social intercourse, notable only because of where we were. Guests at a multimillionaire’s secluded retreat. We were an intriguing assortment: an actress, a stepson, a son, an employee, a lawyer. A journalist turned novelist.

  But it couldn’t be as aimless as it appeared. In some fashion these particular people met a certain criterion.

  I wondered if Chase was going to tell me what that was.

  Or whether I should have to find out for myself.

  On that thought, known only to me, of course, I excused myself, professing much pleasure with both the tea and the company. I had business to take care of before I met Chase.r />
  I had no difficulty following Miranda’s directions. The travertine marble staircase in the foyer led to the second floor. A marble-topped Louis XVI—style side table sat on the landing. Firecracker plants flamed in jade pots. The hallway was wide and spacious, the walls a cool lemon with crisp white moldings.

  My room was in the south wing, the last bedroom on the right. It would have been a perfect room for a visiting teenager. Pink walls, pale pink shutters (open to provide a slatted but glorious view of the sound), pink bedding (roses again, climbing a trellis). White wicker furniture afforded a bit of contrast. But surprisingly the pink didn’t cloy; it was light and delicate, as faint as the first wash of sunrise.

  My emptied suitcase was in the closet, my clothes were hung, my lingerie was neatly folded in the lavender-scented drawers of a wicker dresser.

  But, I was pleased to note, my carry-on bag sat on the desk, unopened.

  A superbly trained maid had attended to my belongings.

  I closed the door and went directly to my canyon bag. I never travel without the tools of my trade: a laptop computer, a tiny state-of-the-art recorder, and, of course, my latest addition.

  Opening the bag, I lifted out the carrying case of the cellular telephone and unzipped it. Taking the phone, I stepped out on a now shadowy balcony to make the call.

  That was my first intimation of just how tenuous was our connection to the mainland. It rang, but faintly. Still, I felt a surge of triumph when Lavinia answered on the first ring.

  Lavinia is an old and dear friend. She looks like a Betty Crocker ad from the fifties. Many too-slick money dealers, to their chagrin, have been fooled by the gingham dresses and sweet rosebud mouth. Lavinia was once a top financial columnist for a New York newspaper, and she has a mind like a Sony microchip.