And One to Die On(56)

Her hair was impossible. She could try to do something about it, or put on a wig, but all that seemed like too much trouble at this hour of the morning. She fished a blue silk scarf out of the suitcase she had left open at the foot of her bed and tied it around her head. It didn’t exactly go with either her dressing gown or her nightgown, but it would have to do.

Hannah let herself out into the hall. It was empty and dark and quiet, but she was sure that most of the people in the bedrooms would still be awake. This was not the kind of night that sent you to your pillow and an uncomplicated trip to dreamland. She went down to the door halfway down the hall and on the opposite side from her own and knocked. She heard moving in there that she was sure had to be pacing.

“Just a minute,” Mathilda Frazier’s voice called out. Then, closer to the door, “Who is it?”

“It’s Hannah Graham,” Hannah said.

On the other side of the door, the bolt was pulled back and the knob was turned. Mathilda Frazier opened up a crack and scowled out.

“What is it you want?” she asked Hannah Graham.

This was ungracious enough, but Hannah wasn’t really surprised. This was one of those new young women who tried to compensate for their lack of breeding and ordinary good looks by trying to be more aggressive than any man. If Mathilda Frazier had been a resident of Beverly Hills, Hannah Graham would not have had her in the house.

“I’ve come to ask you if I can borrow a couple of sleeping pills,” Hannah said.

Mathilda made a face. “What makes you think I’ve got sleeping pills?”

“I heard you telling Kelly Pratt you were going to take one.”

“I never told Kelly any such thing.”

“Yes, you did. It was right before dinner. I don’t remember who was doing what to annoy you, but somebody was doing something.”

Mathilda Frazier hesitated. Then she seemed to make up her mind.

“Come on in,” she said grudgingly. “I don’t have very many, but I suppose you can have two. I don’t think we’re going to be on this island for another night anyway.”

“Don’t you?” Hannah asked.

Mathilda’s room was almost identical to her own, but mirror image. Mathilda had a bed with a canopy and a vanity with a curved-top mirror and a steel engraving, but her steel engraving was of a little boy carrying a balloon. Hannah sat down on the vanity stool. Mathilda had done a lot more unpacking than she had, if you could call it unpacking. Three suitcases were lying open on the bedroom floor, spilling slips and bras and blouses and pantyhose everywhere.

Mathilda got a plastic prescription bottle out of her cosmetics case and opened the cap. She shook two pills out onto her hand and walked them across the room to Hannah.

“Here,” she said, handing the pills to Hannah. “These are a fairly strong prescription. They ought to knock you right out.”

“Thanks.” Hannah knew what kind of prescription they were. She had some of her own back in California. She would classify them as middle of the road. The pills were blessedly small, though, and she was able to swallow them dry.

“Can I ask you something?” Mathilda Frazier said. “What was it you meant before? Do you think the police are going to make us spend another night in this house?”

“I think the police are going to want to get us out of here as soon as they can,” Hannah said. “I just don’t think we’re going to get off this island. At least, not tomorrow.”

“But why not?”

“Listen to the wind,” Hannah told her. “And it’s not just the wind, either. Go look at the weather.”

Mathilda hesitated again, as if she thought Hannah was out to trick her in every way she could. Then she walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains.

“It’s still so dark out there. It’s hard to see anything at all. You’re right about the wind, though. The wind is just plain awful.”

“Do you hear those pinging sounds?”

“Like hard rain hitting a metal roof.”

“That’s hail hitting the side of the house,” Hannah said. “It’s going to get worse all day Friday, too. I heard it on the radio.”

Mathilda let the curtain drop and came around to sit on the edge of her bed. “God, I hate this. This is just the most creepy thing. And the idea of that man wandering around here—where do you think he’s gone to? Do you think he’s hiding in the attic or the basement or someplace else we haven’t looked?”

“I think he’s long gone,” Hannah said. “I think he killed Tasheba Kent and took off out of here. I don’t care what Gregor Demarkian says.”