Read Online Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 by Dead Man's Island - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dead Man's Island
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, South Carolina, Women Journalists, Henrie O (Fictitious Character)
Ads: Link
future. You’ve always been willing to gamble. I knew when you asked me to come here this weekend that something wonderful was going to happen.” She lifted her head. Her upswept platinum hair glistened.
“I only gamble on a sure thing, Valerie.” Chase’s cold voice was dismissive. “You haven’t been in a hit in six years.”
The actress’s hand tightened on the stem of her crystal wineglass. Now her beautiful face had the empty look of a car-crash dummy.
I surveyed my fellow guests with interest during these exchanges. I had no illusions that I could “dowse” guilt for Chase, but I was beginning to have a feel for these people and I wanted to match these judgments against my take of the would-be murderer.
Burton Andrews was a toady, quick to offer an admiring laugh at Chase’s smallest quip, eager to trumpet agreement with the boss’s opinions. But dislike flickered in his eyes when Chase wasn’t looking in his direction.
Valerie St. Vincent was self-absorbed to the point of narcissism. The actress desperately hungered for love and admiration and praise. Why had Chase turned on her so brutally? She still had a look of shock, her lips so compressed that tiny white patches marked the corners of her mouth.
Lyle Stedman sipped his wine and smiled grimly. “You’d better be damned glad somebody’s coveringbusiness, Roger. It may not be the best system, but you show me one that works better.”
Miranda Prescott sat at the end of the table opposite her husband. She was lovely tonight in a turquoise silk sarong. An orchid was tucked in her softly curling black hair. But the eyes above her social smile looked anxious, and they constantly sought her husband.
Chase seemed unaware of her scrutiny.
He seemed, in fact, even more feverish than when we’d met earlier in his study. His conversation erupted in staccato bursts and he jumped restlessly from topic to topic: the new church-state relations in Mexico, the concern over stability in the Russian nations, the continuing unrest in the Balkans. He ate little. But the mound of stubs in the ashtray grew fast.
Trevor Dunnaway sat between Miranda and Haskell Lee, who was on my left. I couldn’t see the lawyer very well, but I heard him. It would be difficult not to hear Trevor Dunnaway. His smooth, golden voice rolled on and on, cheerfully describing the latest addition to his collection of trompe l’oeil, an eighteenth-century French oil that absolutely, he exclaimed, looked like a bas-relief sculpture.
I certainly gave Dunnaway good marks for his efforts to be an entertaining guest at a less than rollicking social occasion. But, more than that, I found myself more interested in the handsome lawyer than I had been before. Those who enjoy the art that attempts to look something other than what it is must have, at the very least, a wry sense of humor. I looked forward to talking to him in more depth.
Haskell concentrated on his food and made noeffort to talk to me or to Trevor. His was the obdurate, scarcely veiled rudeness of a spoiled child, still so caught up in his own wants that he fails to see other human beings as real. They were, at best, purveyors of satisfaction. They were, at worst, obstacles.
As for Roger, his round face still had a high flush and his voice was querulous. Chase’s son had drunk too much, which made me wonder how much he’d consumed before coming to dinner. Roger was an emotional man consumed by causes. The world thinks highly of cause bearers who succeed, calling them visionaries; those who fail it dismisses as crazies. But there is one certain truth about zealots: They are never bound by the rules the rest of us follow.
Much as he hated to accept it, Chase believed that someone now seated at his dining table was a poisoner.
What did I know about our potential murderer?
Poisoning is a stealthy crime. The killer is seldom present at the fatal moment. In my view, poisoning argues either cowardice or enormous caution.
Valerie
“I only gamble on a sure thing, Valerie.” Chase’s cold voice was dismissive. “You haven’t been in a hit in six years.”
The actress’s hand tightened on the stem of her crystal wineglass. Now her beautiful face had the empty look of a car-crash dummy.
I surveyed my fellow guests with interest during these exchanges. I had no illusions that I could “dowse” guilt for Chase, but I was beginning to have a feel for these people and I wanted to match these judgments against my take of the would-be murderer.
Burton Andrews was a toady, quick to offer an admiring laugh at Chase’s smallest quip, eager to trumpet agreement with the boss’s opinions. But dislike flickered in his eyes when Chase wasn’t looking in his direction.
Valerie St. Vincent was self-absorbed to the point of narcissism. The actress desperately hungered for love and admiration and praise. Why had Chase turned on her so brutally? She still had a look of shock, her lips so compressed that tiny white patches marked the corners of her mouth.
Lyle Stedman sipped his wine and smiled grimly. “You’d better be damned glad somebody’s coveringbusiness, Roger. It may not be the best system, but you show me one that works better.”
Miranda Prescott sat at the end of the table opposite her husband. She was lovely tonight in a turquoise silk sarong. An orchid was tucked in her softly curling black hair. But the eyes above her social smile looked anxious, and they constantly sought her husband.
Chase seemed unaware of her scrutiny.
He seemed, in fact, even more feverish than when we’d met earlier in his study. His conversation erupted in staccato bursts and he jumped restlessly from topic to topic: the new church-state relations in Mexico, the concern over stability in the Russian nations, the continuing unrest in the Balkans. He ate little. But the mound of stubs in the ashtray grew fast.
Trevor Dunnaway sat between Miranda and Haskell Lee, who was on my left. I couldn’t see the lawyer very well, but I heard him. It would be difficult not to hear Trevor Dunnaway. His smooth, golden voice rolled on and on, cheerfully describing the latest addition to his collection of trompe l’oeil, an eighteenth-century French oil that absolutely, he exclaimed, looked like a bas-relief sculpture.
I certainly gave Dunnaway good marks for his efforts to be an entertaining guest at a less than rollicking social occasion. But, more than that, I found myself more interested in the handsome lawyer than I had been before. Those who enjoy the art that attempts to look something other than what it is must have, at the very least, a wry sense of humor. I looked forward to talking to him in more depth.
Haskell concentrated on his food and made noeffort to talk to me or to Trevor. His was the obdurate, scarcely veiled rudeness of a spoiled child, still so caught up in his own wants that he fails to see other human beings as real. They were, at best, purveyors of satisfaction. They were, at worst, obstacles.
As for Roger, his round face still had a high flush and his voice was querulous. Chase’s son had drunk too much, which made me wonder how much he’d consumed before coming to dinner. Roger was an emotional man consumed by causes. The world thinks highly of cause bearers who succeed, calling them visionaries; those who fail it dismisses as crazies. But there is one certain truth about zealots: They are never bound by the rules the rest of us follow.
Much as he hated to accept it, Chase believed that someone now seated at his dining table was a poisoner.
What did I know about our potential murderer?
Poisoning is a stealthy crime. The killer is seldom present at the fatal moment. In my view, poisoning argues either cowardice or enormous caution.
Valerie
Similar Books
