Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 Read Online Free PDF

Miranda offered me delectable sandwiches: watercress, smoked salmon, egg salad. She managed a social smile, but it did nothing to hide the misery in her vulnerable dark blue eyes. There was definitely something very wrong here. It showed in the slight tremble of those beautifullymanicured, girlish hands, such soft unworn hands, and in the unhappy droop of her gentle mouth.
    Nervy
. That’s an old-fashioned word, but it says it all, a mixture of fear and uncertainty and anxiety.
    I couldn’t for the life of me trace her uneasiness to a source. It was more than my unanticipated arrival. Certainly it couldn’t be the surroundings. The living room itself was delightful, comfortable chairs and sofas upholstered in a chintz pattern of a vase with rosebuds that was repeated in the drapes. Cheerful rose-and-white-striped silk covered another sofa and the comfortable easy chairs. Red velvet straight chairs echoed the crimson lacquer of a coffee table. The needlepoint carpet featured squares of lush roses mixed with peonies. A vivid Matisse garden scene hung on one wall, a Dufy beach view on another. The red Bohemian glass of the twin chandeliers sparkled like Chianti in sunlight.
    But nervy the young wife was. I paid close attention as she made the introductions.
    Valerie St. Vincent
—“No doubt you’ve seen her onstage, Mrs. Collins. One of Broadway’s great stars.”
    Platinum hair framed smooth, controlled features, but it was the coldness of Ms. St. Vincent’s blue eyes that I noticed. They briefly touched me. She made no effort to disguise the look of total, chilling disinterest, despite her reputed theatrical abilities.
    I gave Valerie St. Vincent a gimlet look. I don’t like to be dismissed. So, without a smile, I said briskly, “I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure.” I had, of course. Her Lady Macbeth had been an unforgettable tour de force. “But I have a tendency to rememberthe leads, not character actors. Hello, Miss St….” I paused. “… Velman, is it?”
    If looks could kill—
    I flashed the actress my most charming smile.
    Haskell Lee
—“Chase’s stepson.”
    The sulky, gorgeous youngster. Haskell must be the son of Chase’s second wife, Carrie Lee, who had died several years ago in an accident.
    “Haskell gave up a tennis tournament to be with us.” Miranda’s lips curved into a meaningless smile that her stepson—so young, yet older than she—didn’t bother to return. “He works in Chase’s Atlanta office.”
    I doubted that Haskell was integral to the success of Prescott Communications. This handsome youth (he must have been a very young child when his mother married Chase) looked much too indolent to excel in anything, except perhaps social tennis. Obviously wishing he was elsewhere, he sprawled back against the chintz cushions, tanned and well-muscled. He popped a tea sandwich in his mouth and managed a barely civil nod. Then he shifted petulantly in his seat and reached for his drink in its cut-glass tumbler. No tea for him.
    Miranda hurried ahead with her introductions.
    Roger Prescott
—“Chase’s son. I know you and Roger will enjoy each other. Roger is a writer, too.”
    Roger was as unlike his father as possible. He was blond, stocky, red-faced, and overweight. But he gave me a spontaneous, cheerful smile. “I write polemics. Critics sometimes describe them as diatribes. How about you?”
    I grinned back at him. “Used to be a reporter. Now I write thrillers.”
    “What’s the difference?” It was a sardonic drawl, but not offensive.
    “In my fiction I have to tone everything down. I could give you facts that no one would ever believe.” I spoke lightly enough, but I wasn’t kidding.
    “I would believe them.” Roger Prescott leaned forward, his pale blue eyes ablaze with sudden emotion. “Did you know, Mrs. Collins, that if we continue our present environmental policies one-fourth of all plant and animal species existent in the mid-eighties will be extinct in