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

back upstairs for the flashlight but didn’t. My eyes would soon adjust to the darkness. The lights in the gardens and near the house were extinguished, and not a gleam of starlight pierced the thick overcast.
    I walked cautiously down the shell path to the pier. An erratic wind skittered leaves one way, then another. The air felt sodden. Waves slapped unseen against the pier, flinging up spray to sting my face.
    With no warning the lights on the pier came on. I turned away from the brooding water. The massive house was dark, except for my room in the south wing of the second floor.
    I was at the steps leading down to the gardens when I heard footsteps crunching on a shell path.
    Of course. Someone—probably the manservant—had been to the generator and restored the power.
    I hurried down the steps and headed that way. I wanted to intercept Enrique. Chase’s valet had been in Chase’s New York brownstone the day the poisoned chocolate piece had killed the dog.
    I always like to catch people at an unexpected time or place. Knowledge they might otherwise hideis more likely to slip out. My fatigue from studying the dossiers evaporated. I walked swiftly, eager to plunge into the quest Chase had assigned me. What better time than now?
    I suppose I made a good deal of noise on the path. I had no reason to be quiet. Just as I came around the side of the house, I realized the other footsteps had ceased.
    I’m fairly good about sounds.
    I was almost certain the other footsteps—when I’d last heard them—were still some distance from the house.
    Lights only spottily illuminated the long swath of lawn behind the house. The tennis courts were dark. The wind rustled the shrubs.
    It was silent except for the sounds of night.
    “Hello,” I called out.
    The rattle of the palmettos, the rustle of magnolias, the scratch of leaves … but not another telltale footstep.
    Someone was out there, hidden in the shadows. Watching me?
    An old homicide cop once told me, “If something don’t seem kosher, run like hell.”
    I’m a fairly steady jogger, but my wind-sprint days are gone. Instead, I ducked away from the path into the sanctuary of shadows. Two can play that game. I ran lightly and quickly toward the house.
    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. Whohad 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