I regained my room and was pleased to see that it did have a button lock.
But I slept poorly. If not an old friend, danger is a longtime acquaintance. I had definitely sensed danger in the inimical quiet that had followed my call. Who had moved unseen through the night, then waited and watched me? And why?
“Vacation from hell.” Valerie St. Vincent glared at the swimming pool where Chase was working out, swimming with a slow, steady freestyle.
The breakfast patio was twenty yards from the pool. In good weather the setting would be idyllic. There was a gorgeous view of the sound, comfortable wicker furniture, and elegantly prepared food: fresh fruit including papaya and kiwi, Danish pastries hot and buttery, cereals, meats, cheeses, eggs, and exquisite coffee. On a sultry August morning with a sullen sky and a wind just high enough to be irritating, however, the patio somehow lacked charm.
As did the actress. In the unflattering light, with the wind disarranging her hair, she looked every one of her forty-two years (that was the official age in her dossier; add at least another five). Her plastic surgery had been skillful, but it wasn’t hard to spot the scars. And no operation would add generosity or thoughtfulness to that smooth, self-absorbed face.
Trevor Dunnaway heaped scrambled eggs on his plate, then added three pieces of French toast and several slices of rare roast beef. “Could be worse, Val, could be worse.”
I sipped my coffee and enjoyed her prompt attack on him.
“Worse? God, yes. I suppose Haiti would be worse!” She looked around venomously. “It doesn’t matter how you dress it up, this is nothing more than a sandbar and a swamp. Carrie would have loathed it. And if I have to listen to that damned music much longer I may drown someone.” The Hawaiian music drifted to us. She had a point.
The lawyer put down his plate and slid eagerly into his chair. “Miranda loves the music.” His tone was neutral.
Valerie’s head jerked toward him. “Is that a little word to the wise, Trevor dear?”
He shrugged and reached for the coffee carafe. “My mother always told me not to bite the hand, et cetera,” he said pleasantly.
“The greedy, greedy hand,” the actress hissed, and she looked again toward the pool.
Chase finished his workout—I had to wonder if he wasn’t showing off just a bit—with the butterfly, that most spectacular and most difficult stroke. At the wall he pulled himself easily out of the pool and stood for a moment, panting, full of life, proud of both his physique and his conditioning. Then, with a casual wave toward his audience, and, yes, I’m sure he knew we were all watching, he loped across to the hot tub, took the steps two at a time, and jumped into the steamy water.
“All he needs is a bevy of serving girls standing over him with fans and sprinkling pearls and rose petals on the water.” The hand gripping Valerie’s coffee cup looked clawlike.
Trevor peppered his roast beef. “Why not?” he said lightly. “I’ll suggest it. He can afford anything he damn well wants.”
I made my first contribution to the breakfast chatter. “Despite the notes coming due?” I spooned brown sugar over my oatmeal.
Trevor poured syrup over his last piece of French toast. “Sure.” His tone was unconcerned. “As far as a public announcement goes, we have to hold off a few more weeks. But you’ll still be working on the book. Just let me know, mid-month, and I’ll get that information to you.” An admiring smile lit his handsome features. “You really have to hand it to the old bastard. He can charm money out of the goddamnedest sources.”
“Especially women,” Valerie snapped.
The lawyer’s smile slipped away. “Val, if you’ve got any sense—”
She jumped to her feet, throwing her napkin down on the table. “I’ve got sense enough to know when I’m not wanted. So why did he invite me?” Her sandals slapped against the tiles of the porch as she flounced toward the French doors.
I took another sip of coffee and looked inquiringly at the lawyer.
Trevor refilled his coffee cup and added three lumps of sugar. “You mustn’t mind Valerie, Airs. Collins. She’s never adjusted to being an ex-sister-in-law.” For an instant the lawyer looked bemused. “Actually, the sharp-tongued little vixen has a point. Why did Chase invite her here?”
I left his query in the limbo of all good rhetorical questions.
I finished my oatmeal, looked regretfully at the succulent French toast, and downed the rest of my superb coffee. “Believe I’ll say good morning to my host.”
Trevor nodded but did not respond.
As I wandered casually across the springy lawn toward the hot tub, Trevor popped up and returned to the buffet table and Haskell Lee stepped out on the patio.
Chase raised a hand from the bubbling waters to give me a cheerful salute.
I could feel the heat from the roiling, foaming water when I reached the top of the steps. The hot tub—actually large enough for a small party—was wooden with wooden steps leading up to the lip of the tub. A fenced wooden walkway circled the lip.
Chase was sprawled comfortably, his back to the wall. His face looked dangerously pink to me. “Henrie O—jump in.”
I merely smiled.
But he was in high good humor, and he always loved to tease. “You used to be a creature of impulse, Henrie O. Come on in.” He was talking too fast, with an unnatural excitement.
I shook my head and started to speak, then a movement caught my eye. I looked beyond the tub, toward the house.
Miranda stood on the patio outside their wing of the house. She wore a brief nightgown of delicate lace-edged cotton. Her childlike face looked pinched and wan.
I smiled and lifted a hand in greeting.
Abruptly, she whirled and darted back into the house.
I suppose my smile turned to a frown.
“What is it?” Chase was irritated, both, I suppose, because my attention had left him and because I wasn’t responding to his playful invitation.
“Miranda.”
The playfulness seeped out of his face. Momentarily he looked somber, then he tossed his head and slapped the water with a resounding smack.
Hot, sudsy water spewed up, spattering my walking shorts.
“Henrie O, this is the way to start the day.” He was smiling again.
As always, Chase at play was an infectious spirit, but I knew I needed to concentrate on my task.
“Chase, two items.”
That got his attention. “You’ve made progress?” He pulled himself out of the tub and stood beside me.
I could feel the warmth of his body.
I stepped back a fraction,
“I’m not sure. I have stirred someone up.” I told him about the search of my room yesterday before dinner.
He was quiet for a long moment, reaching out absently for a thick towel from a nearby stack. Briskly he buffed his head and chest dry, then wrapped the towel around his waist. “I don’t know what the hell that means. It could be anybody. Maybe just Betty straightening up.”
“It wasn’t Betty.” Perhaps I was a little sharp.
He gave me a rueful smile. “Sorry, Henrie O. Of course you’re sure. You wouldn’t have told me otherwise. Hell of a thing, isn’t it! I can believe someone here is trying to kill me, but I can’t believe a guest or employee of mine would invade another guest’s privacy. But if someone searched your room—”
“There must be a reason.”
“All right. What do you want me to do—call everyone together and—”
“Lord, no.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “The last thing we want to do is alert the searcher. No, I just wanted to tell you because it may indicate suspicion of me, which wouldn’t be helpful. But there’s more…”
I told him about that cold, inimical sense of being observed late last night and the hair-prickling feeling of danger.
He crossed his arms over his chest; now his face was grim.
Good. I had caught his attention. I was afraid he would dismiss the non
encounter as the figment of a too-active imagination.
“Maybe we better call the whole thing off. I thought it would be all right, that you could find out the truth for me. But I won’t put you in danger. I won’t.”
There was utter finality in his voice.
“Chase, you damned chivalrous fool, use your head. If I’d seen whoever it was, I might have been in a jam. But I didn’t. So drop that theme. What I want is for you to think—and to be very careful. Why would anyone turn off the power? Do you have anything to do with the generator? Is there any way you could be put in danger there?”
He didn’t brush it off.
I waited patiently. And, truth be told, with a quiver of excitement because this did indeed bring back old times—the good times—to me, working with Chase, watching his quick intelligence sift facts and theories and suppositions. More often than not he’d come up with a new angle, something no one else had figured.
A chair scraped back from the breakfast table, and Trevor ambled down into the rose garden, pausing occasionally to bend low and sniff the blooms. Roger came through the French doors and called a good morning to Haskell, who acknowledged it with a nod. Roger stretched and yawned. Today he looked like an amiable sleepy bear. His blue-and-white-striped polo shirt was too small and already damp with sweat and his khaki shorts were crumpled. He saw me and his mouth spread into an agreeable smile, then he clapped Haskell on the shoulder and took a chair.
Still Chase stood, straight as an arrow, his eyes speculative.
The water in the tub bubbled and gurgled, churning and reflecting the sunlight in an almost blinding glare.
Finally Chase spoke. “I can’t see how I could be in any danger there, Henrie O. I’ve been in the generator room only once since this place was built. The architect took me through everything. It’s not a spot I visit. Ever. And I certainly won’t go near it now. So the objective can’t be the generator room itself. As for why the lights went out, that’s easy enough. Someone wanted to be certain they weren’t seen. How long, Henrie O, were we in darkness?”
“Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty.”
Chase threw back his head and laughed heartily. He reached for another towel. “I guess I don’t have to worry about any fancy booby traps. There wasn’t enough time. But I won’t step on anything that looks like fresh digging. Besides, maybe the person you heard didn’t have anything to do with our lights going out.”
“So why not answer when I called out?”
He gave a sardonic shrug. “There are always secrets, my dear. Perhaps Haskell was nosing around the maid. He wouldn’t exactly want to draw attention to it.”
“Is that a possibility?”
“It’s occurred to me.” His eyes held a mixture of salacious amusement and irritation. “He would know I wouldn’t like it.”
I always have another question. “Why would you care?”
At that, he gave a whoop of laughter. “Then you don’t picture me in the role of a stern and moral father figure to my stepson?”
“No. A buccaneer, perhaps. A stern and moral figure, no.”
“Suffice it to say, my dear, that that kind of dalliance plays hell with domestic arrangements. Anyway, the point is that your not-quite-close encounter may merely have been an embarrassment to someone.”
“I don’t think so.” I started down the tub steps.
“I know. You’re as determined as the witches in Macbeth that trouble is brewing. So I’m warned. Believe me, I won’t touch any electrical connections of any sort. Now, what do you have planned for today?” He couldn’t quite keep his voice casual as he followed me down the steps.
“I’ll get to that. But, first, how many of the people now on the island have been here before?”
Chase crossed his arms on his chest. It wasn’t the body language of resistance. I could see the ripple of goose bumps on his arms.
“Everyone, my dear, except you.”
“So any one of them could know where the generator is.” I had expected little else.
“It’s hardly a state secret.”
“And no one would have any reason to expect you to go to the generator.” I was thinking out loud. “Okay, let’s drop that for now. Do you, in fact, follow a regular schedule when you are here?”
He gave me a swift look of respect. “I understand. And, yes, I do. I start every morning with a workout in the pool. Then I indulge myself in the hot tub. The only good idea that ever came out of California.”
I lifted my chin. Had the circumstances been different, I would have gone to battle immediately. What all of us owe to California can scarcely be measured and God knows I’m not talking about Hollywood, though it does have its moments. Still, the classic films can almost be recited by memory: Gone With the Wind, Casablanca, The African Queen, The Bridge on the River Kwai, and maybe a dozen more. But California started the struggle for a clean environment, including smoke-free lungs. And it’s perhaps the last place on earth, certainly this side of heaven, where decent people believe affirmations can affect the small-souled and cold-hearted leaders who happily engage in war although they, of course, are safe in distant capitals.
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.
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