Read Online Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 by Dead Man's Island - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dead Man's Island
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, South Carolina, Women Journalists, Henrie O (Fictitious Character)
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St. Vincent would be cautious, as would Chase’s secretary and his lawyer. All three were manipulative, always alert to improve their situation, always hiding their desires beneath carefully preserved facades of beauty or amiability.
Lyle Stedman, on the other hand, would be careful but not cautious. I had trouble picturing that combative man sliding the tip of a syringe filled with cyanide into a piece of candy.
I looked down the table.
My glance locked for an instant with Miranda’s.Her worried eyes probed mine, demanding … demanding what?
I saw Miranda Prescott as neither cautious nor cowardly. Emotions flitted across her face so openly, many of them emotions that should have been alien to her youth and to her position.
For very different reasons, neither Haskell nor Roger would be cautious. Both were impulsive, emotional, passionate. Neither, I felt certain, was a coward.
But poisoning requires more forethought and meticulous preparation than I would expect of Haskell.
As for Roger—Roger would kill for a better good, but it would be an agony for him to do so.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I would …
“My friends.” Chase’s rich voice held no trace of irony. He pushed back his chair and stood.
The dessert had been served and removed and fresh coffee brought. Enrique moved so quietly that he seemed all but invisible.
“I have an announcement to make.” Chase looked at each of us in turn. “I’ve asked you to the island for a special reason.”
Roger reached for his coffee cup. The sound of china ringing against china seemed strident in the waiting quiet.
Every eye focused on Chase.
It was a very clear indication of the power he wielded in each and every life in this room.
Too much power.
“I am very lucky to have persuaded one of the finest writers of our time to agree to work with me in preparing a biography.” He flashed me the ingenuoussmile I’d found so charming forty years before. “Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins.” He paused; everyone looked at me.
I managed a frosty smile.
Chase rocked back on his heels, his face genial, his tone expansive. “We all know that each person is perceived differently by those around them. That’s why you’re here. Each of you knows me in a different way. Your part in this is simple. Tell Henrie O what you know, how you feel. Be honest. I want you to tell her exactly what you think of me—what your dealings with me have been. Because this is to be a frank biography. She won’t have any trouble finding people who will tell her nice things. I want the truth. Because, you know, I’m not ashamed of a goddamned thing I’ve ever done.”
It was fitting that Valerie St. Vincent enjoyed the last word. She flung down her napkin, shot Chase a contemptuous glance, and said with her lovely actress’s diction: “If you aren’t, my dear Chase, you certainly should be,” then swung about to exit, her golden head high and her shoulders flung back.
A beautifully flung barb, a gorgeous departure.
That’s how I might have judged it, except for the effect on Miranda.
Her eyes huge and questioning, Chase’s young wife stared after the actress. Then slowly, painfully, her bewildered gaze turned toward her husband.
But Chase was unaware of Miranda. Instead, his face oddly smug, he watched Valerie stride away.
4
C hase was in high good humor as he offered liqueurs to his guests. He seemed totally unaware of Miranda’s pale face and silence. Valerie did not join the rest of us in the living room. I had no chance to talk to him with any freedom. But tomorrow would do well enough. I declined a game of bridge and, at about a quarter to ten, bid everyone good night.
But I wasn’t going to bed.
I was going to think.
I glanced at the fresh carafe of water on my nightstand.
It could so easily be poisoned.
So could the golden box of expensive chocolates that rested near the carafe.
But I assumed Chase could think of that, too.
The maid—I must try to talk with Betty
Lyle Stedman, on the other hand, would be careful but not cautious. I had trouble picturing that combative man sliding the tip of a syringe filled with cyanide into a piece of candy.
I looked down the table.
My glance locked for an instant with Miranda’s.Her worried eyes probed mine, demanding … demanding what?
I saw Miranda Prescott as neither cautious nor cowardly. Emotions flitted across her face so openly, many of them emotions that should have been alien to her youth and to her position.
For very different reasons, neither Haskell nor Roger would be cautious. Both were impulsive, emotional, passionate. Neither, I felt certain, was a coward.
But poisoning requires more forethought and meticulous preparation than I would expect of Haskell.
As for Roger—Roger would kill for a better good, but it would be an agony for him to do so.
Tomorrow, tomorrow I would …
“My friends.” Chase’s rich voice held no trace of irony. He pushed back his chair and stood.
The dessert had been served and removed and fresh coffee brought. Enrique moved so quietly that he seemed all but invisible.
“I have an announcement to make.” Chase looked at each of us in turn. “I’ve asked you to the island for a special reason.”
Roger reached for his coffee cup. The sound of china ringing against china seemed strident in the waiting quiet.
Every eye focused on Chase.
It was a very clear indication of the power he wielded in each and every life in this room.
Too much power.
“I am very lucky to have persuaded one of the finest writers of our time to agree to work with me in preparing a biography.” He flashed me the ingenuoussmile I’d found so charming forty years before. “Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins.” He paused; everyone looked at me.
I managed a frosty smile.
Chase rocked back on his heels, his face genial, his tone expansive. “We all know that each person is perceived differently by those around them. That’s why you’re here. Each of you knows me in a different way. Your part in this is simple. Tell Henrie O what you know, how you feel. Be honest. I want you to tell her exactly what you think of me—what your dealings with me have been. Because this is to be a frank biography. She won’t have any trouble finding people who will tell her nice things. I want the truth. Because, you know, I’m not ashamed of a goddamned thing I’ve ever done.”
It was fitting that Valerie St. Vincent enjoyed the last word. She flung down her napkin, shot Chase a contemptuous glance, and said with her lovely actress’s diction: “If you aren’t, my dear Chase, you certainly should be,” then swung about to exit, her golden head high and her shoulders flung back.
A beautifully flung barb, a gorgeous departure.
That’s how I might have judged it, except for the effect on Miranda.
Her eyes huge and questioning, Chase’s young wife stared after the actress. Then slowly, painfully, her bewildered gaze turned toward her husband.
But Chase was unaware of Miranda. Instead, his face oddly smug, he watched Valerie stride away.
4
C hase was in high good humor as he offered liqueurs to his guests. He seemed totally unaware of Miranda’s pale face and silence. Valerie did not join the rest of us in the living room. I had no chance to talk to him with any freedom. But tomorrow would do well enough. I declined a game of bridge and, at about a quarter to ten, bid everyone good night.
But I wasn’t going to bed.
I was going to think.
I glanced at the fresh carafe of water on my nightstand.
It could so easily be poisoned.
So could the golden box of expensive chocolates that rested near the carafe.
But I assumed Chase could think of that, too.
The maid—I must try to talk with Betty
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