Free Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 by Dead Man's Island Page A

contained a recent quote of his—from a speech to a men’s dinner club—that Prescott Communications was in no danger of dissolution and the announcement that new money would be infused by fall.
    I did learn facts about Chase that I hadn’t known:
    He was raised by an aunt in Chicago (both parents dead in a train crash). Chase and his aunt Sylvia were achingly poor.
    He married his first wife, Elizabeth Warren, thesame year Richard and I married. Their son, Roger, was born a year after Emily. Elizabeth inherited six newspapers and two radio stations from her father. These became the core of Chase’s vast media chain. Cancer killed Elizabeth when Roger was eighteen.
    I understood what that meant to Roger.
    Chase married Carrie Lee the following fall. Valerie St. Vincent was Carrie Lee’s sister. Chase’s second wife died four years ago in a small plane crash en route to their summer home in Aspen. Chase was in Paris on business; Haskell was in Spain. Roger’s whereabouts weren’t mentioned.
    Two years later Chase and Miranda Temple married on Valentine Day. She was an evening-news co-anchor for his Chicago television station.
    The list of Chase’s awards, achievements, honorary degrees, and publications ran six single-spaced pages. Chase was the subject of a recent unauthorized biography,
The Man Who Picks Presidents
, by Jeremy Hubbard. Immediately before the book’s publication Chase filed a libel suit. Litigation was pending.
    It was hard not to be aware of the book at the time, for it dominated bestseller lists and trashy headlines for months. I had not read it, however. And not simply because Chase was a closed chapter in my life. I refuse to increase the profits of garbage journalists by purchasing their frothy cocktails of gossip, innuendo, and half-truths. I have a similar policy for the kind of fiction that excites critics because of its viciousness and commercially crafted violence. But now I made a check mark in the margin. I wanted acopy of
The Man Who Picks President
. Chase unquestionably had one here on the island.
    I took a chocolate break after I finished Chase’s folder. My hand hesitated for only a moment above the selection of assorted truffles in the candy box. After all, nobody wanted to poison me.
    The ineffable essence of chocolate laced my bloodstream, and I returned to the folder stack with renewed energy.
    It was slow going. But I was determined to read them all tonight. I intended to get an early start tomorrow talking to my fellow guests, and I wanted all the ammunition I could carry. I made notes, jotted down lines of questioning, even came up with a few theories.
    The lights went out.
    “Damn.” I said it softly, without too much rancor. After all, it was late now—quite late. The luminous dial of my watch read ten minutes after two. And a power outage on a remote island certainly was no cause for surprise. I’d recently done a series of stories in the Virgin Islands. It was rather more a matter of celebrating when the lights were on than remarking when they were off. I knew from my earlier nosing about that this island had its own generator. I didn’t know what would cause it to fail, but I was confident it would come back on. Eventually.
    I never travel without a flashlight, of course. Hotel fires do happen. I always put my flashlight and my room key—when in a hotel—on the television set, so I would know immediately where to find them in an emergency. Here I’d placed the flashlight on the delicate writing desk. I picked it up and turned it on. Ihad enough light to finish the folder on Lyle Stedman, but I was suddenly tired. Enough was enough.
    But I was restless. Tired, yes, but not ready for sleep.
    I enjoy moving about in the night, walking quietly in the darkness while others sleep. Now I slipped down the stairs and stepped outside through the unlocked door. I was getting accustomed to the lack of locks on Dead Man’s Island.
    It was dark beyond belief. I almost went