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

you.” I should have been ashamed of myself.
    He looked at me warily, unaccustomed to praise.
    “In fact, I’ll make it a point to tell Chase how outstanding I think you are. He can trust you—which is certainly more than can be said of some of the other people in this house.”
    I had him eating out of the palm of my hand. His suspicions tumbled over each other.
    “Listen, Mrs. Collins, I know it’s Roger who spilled that awful stuff about the family to the writer … He tries to pretend he likes his father, but it’s a lie, a lie…. Roger loathes him, I know he does … Never made any money on his own. Why, he just barely makes a living … Miranda’s been acting funny the last few weeks … I see her up at night walking around … Lyle Stedman thinks he’s already as big a deal as Mr. Prescott just because he’s been picked to be CEO. I think that’s making Mr. Prescott kind of mad…. Butter won’t melt in that lawyer’s mouth. I don’t trust him. I tried to tell Mr. Prescott once, but he wouldn’t listen…. That snotty Haskell Lee treats me like I’m dirt. Asks me to get him things, like I’m some kind of servant … I might as well not exist as far as Mrs. St. Vincent’s concerned. But she’d better watch how she acts …”
    There was a lot of venom and resentment stored behind Burton’s obsequious facade. When he finallyran down, I inquired mildly, “Who should I talk to next? Who do you think will be the most honest and open about Mr. Prescott?”
    The secretary’s answer surprised me.
    I suppose someday, should I ever make it to Eden, I’ll find it much like the sanitized, controlled garden of luxury that Chase had created on Prescott Island, with flowering shrubs and sea-soft air and tiny pockets of privacy at every hand.
    As I walked up the shell path, I welcomed the shade from the willows that fenced off the jogging track from both the back gardens and the house. It was only midmorning, but the hot air flowed over me like melted caramel.
    As befitted an earthly paradise, there were several comfortable webbed garden chairs beneath the shade of an arbor beside the track. I took a seat and watched Lyle Stedman jog. Lean and muscular, he had the easy grace of an accomplished athlete. His red hair was plastered limply to his skull. Unsmiling, breathing harshly, Lyle looked tough, absorbed, withdrawn. He slowed to a walk, still moving briskly.
    His dossier revealed a young man in a hurry. Lyle Stedman started poor, the only son of a divorced secretary. He learned early that he was good at sports. It became his ticket to college, a track scholarship to the University of Mississippi. He was the house manager in his fraternity. He also played poker. Between the fraternity job, his scholarship, and cards, Stedman put together enough of a nest egg to pay his way to the Middle East. There he badgered every news bureaufor a job until he landed one, starting off as a stringer. Three years later Prescott Communications hired him full time. When the Gulf War began, Lyle’s stories caught the attention of Chase himself. Chase brought the young journalist back to the Atlanta office. Lyle Stedman outhustled his peers, and six months ago—at the tender age of twenty-seven—he was named Chase’s heir apparent.
    I imagined he’d made enemies in his scramble to succeed. I doubted that he gave a damn.
    Lyle’s stride checked. He hesitated, then came toward me, his expression impassive. He picked up a towel from a nearby chair, wiped off his face, then dropped into the chair across from me. Intelligent green eyes challenged me. He waited for me to speak.
    I reached up and broke off a spray of honeysuckle. This time I didn’t try the dear-old-lady-writer-cozying-up-to-the-subject. Lyle Stedman was a far cry from Burton Andrews. “Having fun?” A South Carolina—size wasp buzzed a little too near.
    “You’re the hotshot reporter. You tell me.”
    “Sure. About as much fun as a root canal.” I would