Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01

by Dead Man's Island

  And so deadly?

  I don’t have an emotional response to kitchens, but even a noncook like myself could admire Rosalia’s immaculate domain, with its sparkling tile work surfaces, white-ash cabinets, and a redbrick floor, and take delight in the wonderful aromas. A hint of cayenne seeped from the bubbling stewpot and the sharp smell of fresh yeast from the flour mixture she was kneading on a marble cutting board pervaded the orderly room.

  The housekeeper paused, her hands clutching the dough, and watched me with frightened eyes.

  Was it I who frightened her, or was she terrified because someone had made an attempt on her employer’s life?

  I took a low-key approach. “Rosalia, I’d like to visit with you for a little while, if it’s convenient.”

  “With me? But I was here in my kitchen. I know nothing.” Shrillness sharpened her voice. She dropped the dough and wiped her hands on her apron. She was as immaculate as her kitchen. Her white uniform was fresh and starched, and her white leather shoes glistened with polish. Her black hair was tucked in a tidy coronet braid. She wore no makeup on her smooth ivory skin. I knew that she was forty-seven, that she had married Enrique when she was nineteen, that they had no children. Both she and Enrique were born in Havana and came to the United States as teenagers after the Cuban missile crisis, their families settling in Miami. Enrique had worked at various marinas, eventually becoming the all-purpose handyman for a wealthy yacht owner. Two years later Chase purchased the yacht, and Enrique had come with the boat. On longer trips Rosalia had accompanied them as cook. Chase was so pleased with their work, he had hired both to serve his household, wherever it might be. So, for almost three decades, Enrique and Rosalia accompanied Chase and his family from home to home, including, finally, Prescott Island.

  There should be a wealth of knowledge here if I were skilled enough to mine it.

  “Rosalia, tell me something of your duties as housekeeper.”

  She wiped her hands again, but some of the tightness eased from her thin shoulders. I listened patiently as she softly described her daily and weekly duties, which were complex indeed, involving the ordering of food, creation of menus, and overseeing of cleaning at six residences. “And Enrique, he is in charge of all else—the cars, you know, and the boat, and the machines. Whatever must work, he makes sure that it does so. And if the boat must be caulked or the roof repaired, why, Enrique tells Mr. Prescott and, quick, quick, it is done.”

  Repairs, corrections, events—whatever—do seem to march at a brisk pace for the very rich.

  “You and Enrique have worked hard for Mr. Prescott for many years. I know you’ve learned a lot about Mr. Prescott and his family over that time. What kind of man is he?”

  She reached down, began to work the dough again. “It is not for me to say.” There was great dignity in her voice.

  “Rosalia, they say no man is a hero to his valet. I need to know what kind of man Chase Prescott is to his housekeeper. Don’t you see, if I can have a true picture of him, I can better see who might be angry or hurt or greedy or cruel enough to try to kill him?”

  “A true picture?” She shook her head and her hands moved with increasing sureness, kneading, plumping, smoothing. “I tell you, lady, you are looking for simple answers where there are none. So what do I say?” She did not look at me as she settled the mound of dough and covered it with a damp cloth. “Mr. Prescott, he was always a nice man to Mrs. Elizabeth, his first wife. Yes, I say this to you. A very nice man.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “But I know that he—”

  “Rosalia.” Enrique spoke quietly, but the sound of his voice stopped her as effectively as a shout.

  There were four entrances to the kitchen: one from the main hallway, and that was the way I’d come, a second on the north, probably leading to a wash area, a third that led directly to the dining room, and a fourth to the outside.

  Enrique stood in the second doorway.

  As I looked toward him I caught the tiny, almost imperceptible movement in the doorway into the dining room.

  But the door didn’t continue to open.

  I looked at Enrique while keeping that just barely opened dining-room door in my peripheral vision. “Enrique, I’m glad you’ve come.” I wasn’t going to admit defeat without a fight. “As you can see, I’m trying to get a better picture of the relationships between Mr. Prescott and members of his family. And staff. I know people who work for Mr. Prescott have probably visited often enough that you can help there, too.”

  He continued to look at his wife, his coal-black eyes hard.

  I had underestimated this man. He was a type I knew—lean, tough, muscled, usually a soldier of some kind, often a guerrilla. His pockmarked face was impassive, but he radiated a particular kind of arrogance, the machismo that sees women solely as objects, either of veneration or lust, but never as partners and companions. This was a man who would do what he had to do to survive, and he would do it without compunction.

  “As you were saying, Rosalia,” I encouraged, “about Elizabeth Prescott, Roger’s mother.”

  She lifted her eyes, and there was stark fear in them. Her voice was high and unconvincing. “Mr. Prescott took her to many, many clinics, many doctors, but the cancer, it was too big. They found it too late.” Her hands made a shape—a cancer the size of a grapefruit?—and her eyes implored me.

  I knew with the certainty of stone that this was not what she had begun to say when her husband intruded.

  She picked up a spatula and a spoon and carried them to the sink. “It was such a hard time, so much pain for Mr. Roger.”

  “And for Mr. Prescott?”

  “It is difficult for a man to lose his wife.” Enrique’s eyes glittered. He folded his arms across his chest. “It was very hard for Mr. Prescott.”

  Had that door to the dining room moved just another fraction?

  “How soon did he remarry?” I met Enrique’s steely gaze.

  Our immediate and complete antipathy couldn’t have been stronger had we engaged in a shouting match.

  Neither of us gave an inch.

  Rosalia looked swiftly toward her husband. She seemed to shrink inside her dress as she stood there, her body drawing in upon itself, tightening.

  My eyes challenged Enrique’s for a measure longer, then I turned to her. “I imagine you remember when a new mistress came in.”

  Enrique turned his angry face toward his wife.

  Rosalia didn’t look at him. She murmured, “The funeral was in April. And the wedding was in October.” She gave me a lightning-swift look.

  I thought I understood her intent. I wasn’t certain. But, for now, I dropped that line of inquiry. Instead I concentrated on Enrique.

  He didn’t overtly resist, but his eyes glowed with anger at being questioned by a woman. Every answer was a bland reiteration of a theme: Chase Prescott was the finest of all employers, Mr. Prescott’s family was nice, Mr. Prescott’s media employees seemed to be very outstanding.

  “What do you think about Mr. Stedman?” The door to the dining room was still ajar.

  “Mr. Prescott doesn’t hire me to talk about people who work for him.” His folded arms said it all.

  I gave him a frosty smile. “To hear you tell it, Enrique, working or living with Mr. Prescott is idyllic. How do you account for three shots and poisoned candy?”

  It isn’t—

  “—your job to figure that out. Right. I got you the first time. But, as has been said in another context, those who aren’t with me are against me. Which makes me wonder very hard how it would benefit you, Enrique, if Mr. Prescott should die.”

  I could read his response without any problem. He was controlling a powerful impulse to hit me.

  “Think about it, Enrique. I’ll check back with you later. I expect some specific responses about the people who are here and what you know about them and Mr. Prescott.” I paused at the swinging door into the hall, still acutely aware of that telltale crack into the dining room. Someone sto
od there listening. Why? “If you are still in a see-hear-say-no-evil mode, well have a little talk with Mr. Prescott.”

  I stepped out into the central hall to a suddenly shocking assault of sound. A Chopin mazurka was being played with an intensity that bordered on violence. It was the first time I realized that the door into the kitchen was soundproofed.

  It delayed me just an instant, then I turned and ran lightly across the hall and opened the doors to the dining room. I could see across the dim room—the shutters were closed and the immense chandelier dark—to the door to the kitchen. It was no longer ajar. I stepped into the dining room, pulling the doors shut behind me, and skirted the table to reach the door. Had I imagined it? I eased it open a breath—and saw Enrique sliding his leather belt through the loops of his trousers.

  I couldn’t see Rosalia.

  I didn’t need to.

  Anger raced through me.

  I kicked open the door and plunged into the kitchen. I walked past a cowering Rosalia until I stood a scant foot from her husband.

  “No.”

  His face flushed an ugly dark crimson. A pulse throbbed in his throat.

  For an instant I knew he was going to strike me.

  “Listen closely, Enrique. If you hurt Rosalia—now or in the future—you’ll go to jail. I’ll make sure of it.”

  He glared at me. His hands fell slowly to his sides. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Mrs. Collins.”

  My eyes dropped to the belt in his hands. “Put it back on. Keep it on.”

  I swung around. “Rosalia, I’m going to find Betty now. She will stay with you. She will help you move your things to one of the rooms near mine.”

  Rosalia’s lips quivered.

  Enrique blazed, “She is my wife!”

  “She will do as I say. I will speak to Mr. Prescott about this as soon as he returns.”

  Enrique shot his wife a look that made my blood run cold. Then he whirled and slammed through the doorway.

  Tears seeped from beneath Rosalia’s closed lids.

  “Do as I say, Rosalia. Betty and I will protect you.”

  Slowly her eyes opened. The tears couldn’t hide the terrible hopelessness.

  “I’ll send Betty. If he returns, run away. Come where there are people. I won’t let him hurt you again.”

  I hated leaving her alone in the kitchen. Would Enrique return? Would it be worse for her because I’d intervened? Or would the fear of Chase’s response stay his hand? I could only hope that Rosalia would do as I’d directed. But it is hard to break the shackles of fear and dominion.

  I stepped back into the dining room, through the door eased open by the unseen observer. It took only a few steps and I was outside, stepping through French doors onto a bricked terrace. To my left was the line of willows screening the terrace from the outer buildings. I glanced toward the empty tennis courts and the tangle of willows close to the track.

  I didn’t expect to see anyone and knew, if I did, that too much time had elapsed to connect the sighting to the listening presence in the dining room.

  Instead, I stood thoughtfully for a moment, aware of the ominous clouds banking up in the south and of the Calcutta-like heat. A storm was coming. I didn’t need the unmistakable, unerring ache of my bones (as accurate as any barometer and more impossible to ignore) to tell me that. But it was simply one more uncertainty in a situation so murky that I couldn’t be sure what mattered and what was totally irrelevant.

  Did it matter that Enrique beat his wife?

  What had Rosalia meant to tell me about Chase? Was it important in finding out who wanted to kill him?

  Who had pressed against that slightly opened door to listen to my questions to Enrique and Rosalia?

  Was it the killer, nervous at my efforts?

  Or was it a suspect, craven with fear of a false accusation?

  I couldn’t know. I only knew that I was plunged into an atmosphere dense with suspicion and dislike, and that all of the contradictory, ill-understood relationships had to be sorted out.

  And I’d damned well better hurry. I had less than twenty-four hours now.

  But first … I found Betty in the laundry room. When she saw me, she stopped short, her eyes widening in alarm.

  I told her what I’d said to Enrique and Rosalia and what I expected of her. There was no surprise in her face. But she looked uncertainly at the half-loaded laundry basket.

  “Let it be. I’ll explain to Mr. Prescott. Go to the kitchen. Stay with Rosalia.”

  She walked back to the house with me. At the kitchen steps she said only, “Enrique will be like a madman.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I thought I heard satisfaction in her voice.

  I wiped the sweat from my face and used the French doors to enter the house. When I reached the hallway, the crashing chords from the piano resounded with furious passion. The pianist attacked the music with a ferocity that I couldn’t ignore. I ran swiftly up the stairs.

  The decor of the music room offered a fitting setting for the dramatic performance. A huge black concert Steinway, two walls sheathed in crimson velvet, a third wall of mosaic—I recognized a replica of the central figure that adorns Barcelona’s Palau de Musica—and a fourth wall of stained glass with glittering glass fingers of sunlight pointing to angelic faces, clearly patterned after the enormous circular central skylight of that opera house.

  The pianist came to a thunderous conclusion, then rested her hands, the fingers powerful and graceful and tipped with scarlet nails, on the ivory keys. The huge mirror facing the piano reflected the woman and the instrument.

  “Ah, the bitch.” Icy blue eyes met mine in the mirror. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  A pale rose and cream Dresden clock chimed a melodious three o’clock.

  She twisted on the seat to face me. “Do you like being a hired gun?” Her voice was laden with contempt.

  I crossed to a green silk Victorian settee and dropped into it. “You interest me. Do you approve of murder?”

  Valerie gave a short, dry laugh. “Perhaps of Chase’s.”

  “Then you won’t mind telling me who you think would like to kill him and why?” I moved uncomfortably on the settee, wondering if it still contained its original horsehair stuffing.

  “My dear, SRO.” She trilled a tattoo on the keys. “Or it would be if we weren’t stuck on this asinine island. His enemies are legion. And well deserved.” Lifting her chin, Valerie declaimed, “As it is, ‘we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’”

  “’For he today that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother….’” I smoothed some lint from the settee. “You have it rather backward, don’t you?”

  “No.” Her merciless face might have been carved from ivory. “Every person he touches withers. Did you know that? He’s like phosphorus, a brilliant glitter but it burns at the touch. Everyone on this island has been damaged by him. Because he doesn’t care for anyone but himself.” She fingered the heavy gold links of her bracelet. “He married Elizabeth for her money. He was unfaithful to her from the very first. It doesn’t take a woman long to know. I wonder how long after she found out that the cancer started to grow.”

  “That’s scarcely fair—” I began.

  “You listen to me.” Her eyes glittered with hatred. “How do I know? Because my baby sister fell in love with him—and he was still a married man. I told her and told her, but she wouldn’t listen. Then Elizabeth died and Chase asked Carrie to marry him. But it wasn’t because he loved her. Mr. Chase Prescott wanted a mistress for his big, expensive houses, a stepmother for Roger. He didn’t really care about Carrie. When she finally realized that, she turned into a frenetic, driven woman, never satisfied with one place. She went down in a charter airplane. They shouldn’t have taken off, not in that kind of weather. But she insisted. They found the plane the next day, after the storm ended. The pilot was still alive, but he died before they got him to the hospital. Now the
re’s the new little wife, and maybe it’s going to be hardest of all on her.”

  Surely I caught a hint of gentleness in Valerie’s voice. “Funny, isn’t it? Everybody always acts like it’s men who lose their senses over women, but that’s not the way I’ve seen it happen. He’s gone through life taking whatever he wanted and never giving a tinker’s damn—and now the bill’s come due. Well, I’ll tell you straight, I hope he pays in full.” She swung back to the piano.

  I didn’t know the music, but it was slow and heavy, the beat of a dirge, solemn and funereal. In my mind I could see black-draped horses with black shaker plumes, moving ponderously, pulling a coffin-laden bier.

  8

  Sweat stung my eyes, filmed my face and arms. No-see-ums swarmed me. Chinch bugs rose from a mound of rotting grasses. Transparent-winged dragonflies looped and circled like Sunday-morning aviators. In the tangled underbrush on either side of the narrow path unseen insects hummed like violins warming up.

  I stopped and looked at an old, old live oak. Live oaks aren’t especially tall as eastern trees go. The biggest live oaks reach only forty to fifty feet. But this tree’s venerable age was evident because its gnarled branches reached out so far, some butting ground-ward for further support. On a sloping branch I glimpsed a corn snake, its vivid red splotches bright against its tan body.

  Corn snakes go after moles. But this one was climbing, inching higher and higher.

  Some animals know when earthquakes are coming.

  Some—like snakes—know when it’s going to storm. Snakes are extremely sensitive to movement. They are deaf, but their capacity to analyze vibration is extraordinary.

  The corn snake was seeking safety, high above the ground.

  I picked my way carefully on the rest of the path through the forest. I didn’t want to obstruct a snake. Snakes, contrary to their reputation, do not aggressively attack. They bite only when they feel threatened. But disturbing a snake is surely grounds for a swift response.

  The thick, moist air was difficult to breathe. I was huffing by the time I came out of the woods. A weathered-gray boardwalk led to the dunes. I couldn’t see the ocean yet, but I heard the thundering crash of surf.