Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Christmas. Not a good time to be alone, wishing you could change things that could never be changed. He looked out at the foggy harbor. Damn pretty, the boats strung with Christmas lights, soft pools of color in the mist. He shivered. It wasn’t really cold, but cold enough to a fellow who’d been on the Mexican Riviera. And damn refreshing after his encounter with Happy. Lord knows it was no wonder they’d split. He should have remembered, when she’d called, how maddening she could be. Didn’t the woman ever come to the point? All this jumble about Marguerite and the awful man who was taking advantage of her. From what Pudge remembered of Marguerite, he’d like to meet the man who could take advantage of her. What harm did it do if the old girl wanted to dabble in ESP and talk to—he frowned, trying to remember what Happy had said—not controls, not gurus. Whatever, somebody on the Other Side. He grinned. You’d think ghosts—spirits?—would have better things to do than rock tables or talk with odd accents through heavy-breathing yogas. Yogas? No, no. Oh well, it didn’t matter a tinker’s damn to him. He would have turned Happy down flat except for the island. Broward’s Rock. He’d not sent a letter to Dallas in a long time. They always came back: Addressee Unknown. But Judy’s brother Ambrose lived on Broward’s Rock. Pudge had called him a couple of times, but Ambrose wouldn’t tell him a thing. Said Judy was through, it was over, leave it at that. Quite a speech for a man who measured out words like hundred-dollar bills. Ambrose had a little bookstore somewhere near the harbor. Maybe after all these years…

  Pudge had pretty well given up his quest. But maybe, just maybe…His shoes clicked on the boardwalk. He walked faster. There, down at the end.

  He reached the window and looked up at gilt letters:

  DEATH ON DEMAND

  He checked the display. Lights twinkled on a small Christmas tree. Red letters hung from a green strand: SANTA’S PICKS FOR A MYSTERIOUS CHRISTMAS. The books were arranged in a semicircle: The Last Noel by Jean Hager, A Holly, Jolly Murder by Joan Hess, Midnight Clear by Kathy Hogan Trocheck, Mistletoe from Purple Sage by Barbara Burnett Smith, Ransome for a Holiday by Fred Hunter and We Wish You a Merry Murder by Valerie Wolzien.

  Times must have changed. As he remembered, Ambrose was a private eye fan, loved John D. MacDonald, James M. Cain and Erle Stanley Gardner.

  He pulled at the doorknob and a CLOSED sign jiggled. Oh. Hours: ten A.M. to six P.M. Monday through Friday, ten A.M. to 4 P.M. Saturday. The store would open in about fifteen minutes. He was turning away when he saw the small gold letters at the bottom of the window:

  ANNIE LAURANCE DARLING, PROP.

  One

  ANNIE LAURANCE DARLING crouched on the floor by the coffee bar. She peered into a deep crack. Maybe if she got a skewer she could reach the silver bell. A skewer? This was a bookstore, not a culinary shop. Whatever made her think of skewers? Probably the box of Diane Mott Davidson books waiting to be unpacked. Readers loved books with sleuthing cooks at Christmas. Maybe she’d better order some more of the Katherine Hall Page and Janet Laurence titles.

  Annie popped to her feet, tried to push back a loop of yarn into her sweater and glared at Agatha. “Agatha, this is my favorite Christmas sweater.”

  The elegant black cat lifted a languid paw, the same paw that an instant before had swiped swiftly through the air and ripped the silver bell from atop the green yarn Christmas tree on Annie’s red sweater.

  Agatha tilted her head and looked for all the world as if she were smiling.

  Annie finally grinned. “Okay. I don’t blame you. It’s what anybody deserves who goes around with a bell dangling from their front. Happy holidays, sweetie.” Annie reached out, carefully, and stroked the velvet-soft fur, then moved behind the wooden bar and poured Kona coffee into a mug. Each mug at the Death on Demand Mystery Bookstore carried the name of a famous mystery. This one emblazoned: MURDER FOR CHRISTMAS by Agatha Christie. She also had a mug with the English title: HERCULE POIROT’S CHRISTMAS.

  Annie held the warm mug and smelled that wonderful Kona aroma. How cheerful to think of lacy waterfalls and champagne music when it was cold and foggy outside. Annie loved the South Carolina Low Country and especially the barrier island of Broward’s Rock, but even she had to admit that December, with its sharp winds and drab brown marshes, was a good time to stay inside, read wonderful mysteries (perhaps Renowned Be Thy Grave; Or, the Murderous Miss Mooney by P. M. Carlson, Death at Dearly Manor by Betty Rowlands or False Light by Caroline Llewellyn) and drink Hawaii’s best coffee. December was also a good time for shelling, especially an hour or two after dead low tide. Yesterday she and Max had found channeled whelks and two lettered olive shells. The olive, South Carolina’s state shell, was glossy with a pointed spire. Max had picked up the first olive and smiled. “Hey, this one’s perfect. A Low Country Christmas present just for us.”

  Annie grinned. She adored Christmas, but sometimes she thought Max loved the holiday even more. Last night they’d made red and green taffy and one evening soon they would whip up a batch of divinity. As far as Annie was concerned, there was never time enough in December to do all she wanted to do. There were boxes of books to unpack and a big stack of luscious bound galleys to read. Publishers sent out early paperback versions of forthcoming books to alert booksellers, and many of her favorite authors would have new books out in the coming year: Anne George, Harlan Coben, Peter Robinson, Deborah Crombie and Caroline Graham. Hmm, what riches. Her Christmas present to herself would be the time to savor these books.

  Annie picked up the fragrant coffee, happily drank. Christmas was her favorite season. She loved everything about it: the tangy scent of pine, decorating the tree, the lighting of an Advent candle at church each Sunday, buying presents and wrapping them, making divinity and pumpkin bread. After all, Max wasn’t the only chef in the family….

  She put down the cup. Family. Christmas was a time for families. She’d always envied friends with big, sprawling, though sometimes noisy and cantankerous families. Her own memories were, perforce, of small gatherings. But happy ones. There were the years with her mother before she died. Later Annie had come to the island to spend the holidays with her Uncle Ambrose, a taciturn man who seldom spoke but whose every gesture to Annie spoke of love. These recent years, Christmases with Max. Dear Max, who always looked toward her when he entered the room and whose dark blue eyes held a special warmth that was for her alone. Dear Max, who was definitely not the Prince Charming she had imagined. Oh, of course he was charming and handsome and sexy, but he was light-years different from any spouse she’d ever envisioned when she was growing up. To be honest, she’d thought of someone like herself: serious, intense, hardworking.

  “Agatha, have you ever heard of the Odd Couple?”

  Agatha lifted her head to sniff the coffee mug, wrinkled her black nose.

  Quickly, Annie said, “Well, we aren’t that odd.”

  From the front of the store, Ingrid Webb, her longtime clerk and friend, called, “Annie, are you talking to that cat again?”

  Annie called back, “Ingrid, she didn’t mean to bite you.”

  “Humph.” There was a slap of books being shelved.

  Annie understood Ingrid’s coolness. Of course Agatha had damn well meant to bite. Agatha was bright, quick, gloriously beautiful and exceedingly temperamental.

  Annie bent down, whispered, “Agatha, you shouldn’t have.”

  Agatha eyed the green-yarn Christmas tree on Annie’s sweater.

  Annie took a step back. Not, of course, that she was afraid of her own cat. But prudence prompted retreat.

  Prudence. Yes, Annie knew she was prudent.

  Max was not prudent, although he was too mellow ever to be reckless. Max didn’t believe in schedules. When they traveled, he was always ready to turn down an enticing road even if it wasn’t going in the right direction. He liked the unexpected. Max was handsome and fun and adventurous—and lazy? She brushed away the word. To be fair, Max was quite capable of intense and excellent work. It was only that he so rarely f
ound any reason to work. Max was debonair and clever and kind. So, all right, he wasn’t an overachiever. Okay, okay, he wasn’t even an achiever.

  Did it matter?

  So far, so good.

  She felt a sudden breathlessness. Why had that phrase come to mind? She could over the years hear her mother’s light, dry voice: “So far, so good.” Implicit in the words was the suggestion that the future was yet to be proved. Her mother had said it about the course of friendships, the quality of clothing, the promises of politicians.

  Annie stepped behind the counter, turned on the water to wash the mug. What a silly phrase to come to mind now. After all, her mother had reason to be wary, to distrust current good fortune. Nonetheless, despite the fact that it was only the two of them, she’d made every Christmas glow and Annie held those distant days in her memory, shining like the long line of luminarias they’d put down their walk to light the way for Santa Claus.

  Annie turned off the water, dried the mug and replaced it on the shelves behind the coffee bar. Speaking of Christmas, she needed to get busy, Christmas lists to make, parties to plan, special groceries to buy, mincemeat and pumpkin, pine nuts and candy canes. But for now, it was time to concentrate on the store. Although mornings were never terribly busy, the store would open in a quarter hour and there were sure to be a few shoppers, especially since the weather was foggy. Ingrid had readied the front counter, and Annie needed to call and check on a shipment of Dick Francis books that hadn’t arrived and print out the invitations to the store’s annual Christmas party. First there was regular work to be done. She lugged the stepladder from the showroom, then unwrapped the paintings stacked against the back wall. Every month, she hung five watercolors by a local artist. Each painting represented a scene from one of Annie’s favorite mysteries. The first customer who identified each painting by title and author received a free book.

  Not, of course, a collectible. Annie glanced toward her New Treasures table where she arranged recently acquired firsts. She was especially thrilled to have found The Sea King’s Daughter by Barbara Michaels, The So Blue Marble by Dorothy B. Hughes and Dark Nantucket Noon by Jane Langton.

  It took only a moment to hang the paintings. Annie climbed down from the ladder and admired the watercolors.

  In the first painting, a lean, dark-haired man knelt on the carpet in front of a safe. He concentrated, eyes intent. There was an aura of underlying sadness about him, of difficult times and dark days, even though his face was young. A tube led from a box on the floor to one ear. Another tube led from the box to the safe, fastened next to a small window with five dials by a rubber suction cup. Nearby, an older man with sandy hair lounged in a comfortable chair, smoking and watching.

  In the second, the hospital operating room was large and green-tiled. Glass cabinets held supplies and metal sterilizing drums awaited scalpels and clamps. A huge circular metal lamp beamed down on the operating table. Their faces stricken with shock, two surgeons, an anesthetist, a chief nurse and two assistants stared at the leaden gray face of the dead patient.

  In the third, the group of people on the terrace, high above a river, looked constrained and ill at ease. At a glass door leading out to the terrace, an older woman placed a restraining hand on the arm of a dark young man who stood close to a beautiful young woman. The older woman’s face was grave. She was a compelling figure, despite the fringe of mousey brown hair, dangling pince-nez and old-fashioned brown dress with a bog-oak brooch as a demure decoration.

  In the fourth, a single-masted white ketch rode quietly on the steel-gray water of the estuary. The name was painted on the hull, Peacock. A young woman rowed a dinghy, a basket and milk jug carefully balanced mid-ships. She handled the sculls with competence. Her face was eager, intelligent, quite lovely and utterly determined.

  In the fifth, the group in the shabby drawing room appeared stiff and uncomfortable. An old woman, her white hair mussed from sleep, stared toward the doorway with bright pale cold seagull’s eyes. She sat on an Empire sofa, her hands folded in her lap. There were three men, two of whom had an official air, one of them a youngish spare man in a well-tailored suit. A pleasant-faced man in his forties stood by a lean dark woman with hazel-gray eyes, a gypsy swarthiness and a sardonic expression. All eyes were focused on the doorway. A young girl of fifteen or sixteen in a school coat and childish low-heeled clumpish black school shoes stood next to a police matron. The girl’s darkish blue eyes were set wide apart in a heart-shaped face. Mouse-colored hair and hollowed cheeks gave the face charm and pathos. The lower lip was full, but the mouth too small. So were her ears. They were too small and set too close to her head.

  Annie knew her smile resembled Agatha’s when licking whipped cream from an unwary coffee bar customer’s cappuccino. But a shopkeeper did what a shopkeeper had to do. No way was she going to put up paintings of Christmas mysteries. Those would be duck soup to her customers. As for the books represented here, no one could say they weren’t among the best of the British mysteries—even if they were all written fifty years ago. Her best customer, Henny Brawley, prided herself on her knowledge of British mysteries. Maybe, maybe not.

  Okay. So far, so good.

  She felt an instant of stillness, then shrugged. The recurrent phrase only meant she realized there was much yet to do. The front windows were done, but there were all the interior Christmas decorations yet to put up. She’d hang the garlands of holly next, the glossy green leaves and vivid red berries superb harbingers of the season. It would look awfully nice for the party, when longtime customers were invited for egg nog and sherry and offered a ten percent discount on all book purchases if they donated a book to The Haven, the island’s public recreational center for teenagers.

  She found the holly garlands in a long, heavy box on the storeroom worktable. She pulled the box into the coffee area. Climbing up on the stepladder, she looped the garland around exposed beams, humming “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” with pauses for an occasional “Ouch!” as the sharp leaves pricked her.

  One end of the swag drooped across the coffee bar.

  Eyes glittering, Agatha whipped her paw, knocking the holly on the floor.

  The phone rang. Annie glanced over the book stacks. “Will you get it, Ingrid?” And smiled. Ingrid’s tribute to the season was a huge red bow that wobbled atop her iron-gray perm.

  Ingrid picked up the phone. “Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore east of Atlanta. How may I—Oh hi, Pamela.” Ingrid pointed at the phone, then at Annie.

  Annie shook her head so vigorously, the stepladder wobbled.

  “She’s hanging holly right now. No, not really hanging it,” Ingrid explained patiently, “she’s wrapping it around the exposed beams in the coffee bar…. Yes, it’s very pretty.”

  Annie reeled in the strand and flipped the end over a beam. Pamela Potts without a doubt. Pamela was an indefatigable volunteer for island charities and a very literal person. And lonely. Annie was already feeling a pang of guilt that she was evading the call.

  “Would you like to leave a message? Oh? Something personal? Well…”

  “I’ll take it, Ingrid.” Annie perched on the stepladder and took the portable phone from Ingrid, nodding her thanks.

  “Annie.” Pamela’s serious voice quavered with uncertainty.

  “Hi, Pamela, what’s up? Ouch!” Blood welled from Annie’s right index finger.

  “Annie!” Alarm lifted Pamela’s voice.

  “It’s nothing. The darn holly…” Knowing this could entail a laborious description of the offending sharp leaf and her resultant wound, Annie said firmly, “What can I do for you, Pamela?”

  A casserole for a church dinner? A donation to the Salvation Army? But Max had already taken care of that. Annie was a firm believer in the Salvation Army, which offered hope to those without hope. A raffle ticket for an island charity?

  “Annie”—Pamela’s voice faltered—“you know that I don’t gossip.”

  Actually, Pamela
didn’t. She was much too serious and, further, she was as good-hearted as she was dense.

  “Of course not.” Annie tossed the holly over the back of a chair. As she walked behind the coffee bar and picked out another mug—REST YOU MERRY by Charlotte MacLeod—she said soothingly, “Don’t pay any attention to what people say.”

  There was a startled pause. “Annie, what are people saying?”

  Annie poured more coffee. It wouldn’t do any good to bleat at Pamela. And an explanation…Annie sighed. “Sorry, Pamela. I was talking to Ingrid. What did you say?”

  “Oh. Well. The thing about it is, I absolutely empathize with the right of every individual to grieve as he or she wishes. I mean”—her voice deepened with earnestness—“there are God-given rights.”

  Annie carried her mug around the bar and slid onto a stool. She glanced at the clock. Opening in five minutes. Surely by then…“I couldn’t agree more,” she said heartily. She sipped the coffee.

  “So you understand that I find this very, very difficult.”

  “I’m here for you, Pamela.” Annie waved away Ingrid, who was looking anxiously toward her.

  “You always have been.” A ragged breath. “That’s why I feel I must tell you about Max’s mother, even though I obviously came upon her in a most private, delicate moment. Oh, and Annie, I was with Gertrude Parker.”

  Annie sat bolt upright. Her brain absorbed three messages at once:

  Pamela Potts didn’t have a problem. The problem, whatever it was, belonged to Annie and Max.