Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “But she asked me…” Pudge’s voice trailed away. “I was trying to explain because I thought Annie should know about this Swanson guy. But she didn’t give me a chance to finish. And Max, I’m afraid it’s more serious than you think. Everybody’s furious over here.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Except Happy. Of course, she can’t ever act mad, it’s not in her job description.” His tone was dry.

  “Job description?” Max added a bow to the cat’s collar. Not that anyone would ever collar Annie.

  “Oh, Happy’s such a—well, I shouldn’t be critical. She means well. God, does she mean well! But being around her is like existing in an alternative universe. Happy absolutely refuses to admit that it isn’t the best of all possible worlds even when something’s really bugging her. And something is driving her nuts or she wouldn’t have asked me to come here. But that isn’t the reason I came. I came because I thought old Ambrose might finally tell me where Judy and Annie were living. I didn’t know about Judy. Dammit”—now he was indignant—“if Judy hadn’t written me off, I could have kept in touch with Annie. And I would have. Max, do you think Annie will ever believe me?”

  Max didn’t have an answer. Annie was hurt and she’d been hurt for a long, long time. “Let’s take it one step at a time, Pudge.”

  “I’m almost ready to get the hell out. This mess over here is enough to push everybody over the edge. Then they’ll all be nuts like Marguerite. She’s convinced this Swanson dude has a pipeline to Eternity and she’s been shoveling money at him. Happy moans about it, but something more is worrying her. I can’t put my finger on it, but she acts damn odd when we start talking about her sister and the rest of the family. As for Marguerite, everybody glares at her and the old hag is having the time of her life. She’s planning a dinner in Swanson’s honor. Even Happy looks glum. If it weren’t for Annie, I wouldn’t spend another night here. Well, Annie and Rachel. Rachel’s a good kid.”

  “Who’s Rachel?” But Max’s tone was absent. An idea began to form.

  “Rachel Van Meer, Happy’s daughter by her second marriage.” Pudge’s voice softened. “She was a little kid when Happy and I got married.” He drew his breath in irritably. “That’s another thing. Happy and I have been going ’round and ’round—Well, anyway that doesn’t matter to you. But I think you better check out this Swanson. Your mom was talking about money…”

  Max wasn’t worried about money. Laurel’s assets were pretty well tied up in trusts. His dad may have been a workaholic, but he obviously had a good line on his wife. Max drew a stack of greenbacks wrapped in chains.

  “Wait, wait a minute.” Max pressed his fingers against his temple. “Hey Pudge, I’ve got an idea! What do you think about this?”

  A pier extended into the harbor. Annie had it to herself. The wind off the water was cold despite the thin sunlight. She stood with her parka zipped, gloved hands on the railing, staring out at a distant buoy bobbing in the swells. A flock of herring gulls, their summer white now dusky and streaked, sailed overhead, angling out toward a fishing trawler. Annie shivered. But it wasn’t the wind chill that made her feel sheathed in ice like a polar explorer trudging across a harsh and terrible whiteness.

  Why, after all these years, should it hurt so much that her father had not sought her, that he had come to the island to see his ex-wife? So Annie was an afterthought. So what else was new?

  Annie blinked against tears. Okay, all right, she was a big girl now. She had Max. The sudden thought broke through the sheath of ice. Warmth pulsed through her. Max. Okay, she wasn’t going to let her father’s appearance ruin the holidays for her or for Max. They were going to have a bang-up Christmas, full of good cheer, good humor—

  Laurel. There could be no pursuit of Christmas pleasure if somebody was taking advantage of Laurel.

  Annie swung around, walked hurriedly, her shoes echoing on the wooden planking. When she reached the boardwalk fronting the shops, her footsteps slowed. She stopped outside the plate-glass window of Max’s office. Max and Barb could easily round up information on Dr. Swanson. It was either appalling or wonderful, depending upon your attitude, what could be learned on the Internet within the space of a few minutes merely by clicking a mouse. Orwell’s Big Brother would have loved cyberspace. With the day coming when a life history will be embedded in a disk on a plastic card, anonymity will be no more. But a computer search could wait. She picked up speed. First she needed to find out whether there was indeed something sinister about the man or whether the problem was the state of Laurel’s mind. Annie still believed that the old-fashioned art called conversation offered nuances and shades of meaning a computer screen could never deliver.

  Annie passed the windows to Death on Demand. She felt a pang of guilt, leaving Ingrid to deal with the Christmas crowd, but Ingrid could call on her husband for help if hordes of shoppers arrived. However, though business picked up nicely during the Christmas season, throngs were unlikely.

  As Annie drove the Volvo out of the harbor parking lot, she punched a familiar number on her cell phone, knowing success would probably commit her to another couple of casseroles.

  Pamela Potts answered on the first ring. “Hello, Annie.”

  Annie felt an instant of surprise. Obviously, Pamela even recognized Annie’s wireless number on her caller ID. Caller ID and the myriad of modern technological gadgetry continued to diminish some of the standbys in older mysteries, such as the anonymous phone call, the unidentified bloodstains, the mysterious stranger. As for the winsome heroine trapped at midnight in the old cemetery, all she had to do now was whip out her cell phone.

  Annie turned left from Sand Dollar Road onto the dusty, gray winding road that led to the Lucy Bannister Kinkaid Memorial Library and reference librarian Edith Cummings, who, in a very different fashion from Pamela Potts, knew everything worth knowing on the island of Broward’s Rock.

  Clutching her cell phone, Annie bluntly asked, “Pamela, do you know Dr. Swanson?” It was not necessary to be indirect with Pamela. It would never occur to Pamela to wonder why a question had been asked.

  “Oh, Annie.” Pamela’s voice might have quavered with the same unease had Annie presented her with a box of tarantulas.

  Annie braked for a half dozen deer trotting across the road. “You don’t like him?” There was a pulsing pause. Annie curved around the front of the three-story Greek Revival mansion that housed the library and pulled into a parking spot next to a line of palmetto palms. “Pamela?” Annie switched off the motor.

  “Some things are wrong.” The words came slowly. “God warns us not to deal with black magic or the occult—”

  Annie could picture Pamela, her blue eyes wide and serious, her hand tightly gripping the receiver.

  “—things which are not of this world. Annie, that’s what Dr. Swanson does. That’s why, even though I am a member of the Library Board, I got up and left in the middle of the lecture he gave there.”

  Annie knew there could have been no more brave or telling act on Pamela’s part.

  “Annie, don’t have anything to do with him. Please.” A gasp. “Is Laurel involved with Dr. Swanson? Oh, Annie, you must save her!” A ragged breath. “Forgive me if I have said too much.” She hung up.

  Annie clicked off her cell phone. As she walked to the back steps of the library, unease swirled within her. Annie knew a sophisticated listener might smile with quiet amusement, but Annie knew, too, that Pamela, earnest, kind, literal and serious, represented basic goodness. And basic goodness was not a laughing matter.

  “Mmm, sexy.” Edith Cummings, a reference librarian with enthusiastic appetites, winked at Annie. “Laurel may be interested in more than his crystals.”

  “Crystals?” Annie pictured chandeliers glittering at a winter ball.

  Edith placed her hands on the Information Desk counter and leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming. “Emory Swanson.” She emphasized each syllable. “His name’s a mouthful, but I’d pick him for Bachelor of the Year anytime. H
e spoke to the Friends a couple of months ago and I’ll have to hand it to the man—he gave a spiel any medicine man would envy while managing to look like a banker. You know, inspire confidence.” She smoothed back a strand of wiry black hair. “And lust. But not for money.”

  Annie had a confused image of a sloe-eyed Harrison Ford in pinstripes. “What does he look like?”

  Edith glanced around the Lucy Kinkaid Memorial Library. “Everybody’s Christmas shopping,” she observed. “Except me and thee, and I’m only here because I’m a working stiff.” Edith reached beneath the counter and lifted up the SECTION CLOSED sign. Plopping it next to the computer terminal, she pointed a thumb toward the stairs. “C’mon. You’re a library patron. I can help you find the materials you’re seeking even if it requires deserting my post and relinquishing the pleasure of addressing the serious inquiries that I receive this time of year. Such as, ‘Do you have “Jingle Bells” available in Icelandic?’ or ‘What kind of buttons does Santa Claus have on his jacket?’” She bustled out from behind the counter.

  Annie followed her up the stairs, Edith bounding eagerly ahead. Annie hadn’t been upstairs since last summer and some momentous meetings involved in planning a Fourth of July celebration that culminated in fireworks and murder.

  Edith was already tapping on the third door to the right of the stairs. Gold lettering on the panel read: FRIENDS OF THE LIBRARY. But she was opening it as she knocked. “Like I said, everybody’s Christmas shopping. Until the holidays are over, it’ll be quieter up here than Tombstone with Wyatt Earp in town. Come on back here.”

  Annie joined her at the second of two gray filing cabinets against the back wall.

  Edith rummaged in the top drawer. “Here we are.” She thrust a folder at Annie. “Every meeting in the history of the Friends is documented since its inception in 1936.”

  Annie forbore to reply, Huzzah. She flipped open the green folder and found the minutes of the meeting called to order at 10 A.M. October 12, a transcript of the guest lecture, presented by Emory Swanson, Ph.D., entitled “Manifestations of Psychic Phenomena in the Modern Era,” and a brochure.

  Edith leaned over Annie’s shoulder, tapped the brochure. “He handed them out. You know, Laurel’s on the Library Board. I’ll bet she was at the meeting.” Edith slid the minutes out of the folder and rustled through the stapled sheets. “Yeah. Here’s her name on the attendance sheet.”

  But Annie was studying the substantial brochure, printed on exceedingly heavy, pale mauve stock. The outer panel featured a pen and ink drawing of a brick plantation house. Beneath it, gold letters in light gothic script trumpeted:

  CHANDLER HOUSE

  EVERMORE FOUNDATION

  BROWARD’S ROCK ISLAND, S.C.

  “I’ve heard the esteemed doctor has quite a fancy layout. He must have asked the real estate agent to lead him to the spookiest house on the island. Or maybe”—Edith’s tone was skeptical—“he spotted it in a crystal. Hey, that may be the coming answer for information junkies. Who needs the Net? No more interminable delays while one phone line squabbles with another or five thousand teenage boys absorb every circuit to check out—Well, we’ve been having some discussions here about where the boys go on the Net. But here’s a glitch-free way to connect to our future. Simply grab a crystal, peer deep within and You Will Be Led. Or something like that. Anyway, that’s the old Chandler place. You know it, don’t you?”

  Annie did. The Chandler house, built in 1832, was one of the more remarkable extant plantation homes in all of South Carolina. Two stories and an encircling piazza were supported by seven brick arches on each side. The house overlooked the marsh and was surrounded by pines and live oaks, buffering it from the nearest homes. Annie and Max had attended a New Year’s Eve dance there several years ago on a stormy night with wind howling around the house. Despite blazing logs in four huge fireplaces, cold drafts eddied through the ballroom. They had danced out of the ballroom into a broad hallway and ended up beneath a sprig of mistletoe and not a breath of cold touched them.

  Edith folded her arms, leaned against the filing cabinet. “Open the brochure.”

  Obediently, Annie unfolded the heavy paper. Faint ivory streaks in the mauve background gave the brochure a marbled appearance. The first inside panel announced:

  THE CRYSTAL PATH

  Amidst the clamor of earthly life, sensitive natures can easily become alienated, overcome—

  Edith said impatiently, “Don’t read that guff. Look at his picture!”

  Annie’s gaze slid over the second panel, where the text alternated with artistic photographs of three crystals, a yellow one in the shape of a lotus, a green one in the shape of an elephant tusk and a brilliant white one in the shape of a globe. In order, they were named Serenity, Perception and One World.

  Annie moved on to the third panel and looked into the forthright gaze of Emory Swanson, Ph.D. Dark brown eyes crinkled in good humor. A slight smile softened ruggedly handsome features, a bold forehead, jutting nose, blunt chin. His silver hair was a thick tangle of close-cropped curls. He sat behind a desk, one strong hand gently cupped around an oblong white crystal. Books filled the shelves behind him. Every color in the photograph exuded warmth, from the beautifully tailored brown tweed sport coat with the merest hint of a red stripe to the ruddy mahogany of the desk to the bright book jackets.

  “Wow,” Edith murmured. “Isn’t he the best-looking thing you’ve seen since Ezio Pinza?”

  Annie wrinkled her nose. “If you like that type.”

  Edith clapped her hands to her head, stared at the ceiling. “Jeez Louise!” she exclaimed. Edith was a mystery reader on a par with Henny Brawley and this exclamation was a favorite of Gar Anthony Haywood’s ex-cop sleuth Joe Loudermilk. Edith flounced her hands. “How about Jeff Chandler?”

  Annie grinned. “Better. He played lots of private eye roles.”

  “You have,” Edith intoned, “no taste. You’d take Jeff Chandler over Ezio Pinza? That’s like preferring Victor Mature to Cary Grant.”

  Annie ignored that gibe. Her eyes studied the compelling face in the photograph. The longer she looked, the more worried she felt. Swanson’s straightforward gaze came from heavy-lidded eyes that had a secretive air, and the lips, despite their gentle smile, were sensuous and utterly confident.

  She had a swift memory of Laurel, with her troubled eyes and slumping shoulders.

  “So what’s this about crystals?” Annie pointed at the pictures of the shining glass shapes.

  Edith’s eyes were sardonic. “Oh well, of course, Swanson doesn’t do anything so passé as a crystal ball. I mean, shades of Madame Who-sis in a turban. No, ma’am. He’s New Century. And that is crystal on a cost level with Lalique or Tiffany. He brought that yellow one, the flower”—she pointed at the lotus—“and placed it where the sun was slanting in from a window and it blazed like diamonds. And he has this deep voice that makes you feel like you’re in a tent with Ronald Colman.” A sigh. “Okay, with a guy you’d like to be in a tent with.” She peered at Annie. “Pierce Brosnan? Brad Pitt? Leonardo di Caprio? Oh, he’s probably too young.”

  Annie glared.

  Edith grinned in utter satisfaction. “Anyway, when Swanson spoke”—Edith tilted her head and her face scrunched in thought—“you felt like you were being wrapped in layers of cashmere warmed in the sun. He stared deep into the crystal and his voice got lower and lower and he described time stretching backward and forward, a golden highway, and the ineffable joy of slipping from earthly ties to walk in light and peace and listen to those who have gone before and will come after.”

  “And?” Annie prompted.

  Edith’s dark eyes crackled with a vivid, skeptical intelligence. “Sweetie, I enjoyed wrapping up in his cashmere voice, but I last took a ride on a turnip truck when I was about six and was invited on a snipe hunt and left holding the bag. Nevermore, saith both I and the raven.”

  Annie frowned at the handsome photograph. “I’ve never heard of him.
The Chandler house belonged to the Rossiters the last I heard.” Hugh Rossiter was a computer consultant and his wife was a golfer.

  “They got a divorce a couple of years ago. She moved to Arizona and he’s in California.” Edith plopped in a swivel chair and grabbed the computer mouse and began to click. “Let me see…” She peered at the screen, typed, clicked, typed, clicked. “Okay, sweet baby,” she crooned to the screen. Images flashed. “Voilà, Annie.” A dark brow quirked. “My, a travelin’ man, all right.”

  Annie pointed at the screen. “Will you print it out for me, Edith?”

  At the stop sign on Sand Dollar Road, Annie hesitated for an instant. Should she turn right and get back to the store? Or…She flicked on her signal, turned left, drove a hundred yards and turned left again on Red-Tailed Hawk. She drove slowly, seeking the winding private road to the Chandler house. It was right along here. Yes. She turned left again on a rutted, bumpy, dusty road. Annie wasn’t impressed. If the Evermore Foundation was so damn well connected, you’d think they could pave the road.

  The road curved around a bamboo thicket. Annie braked and stopped in front of a huge metal gate attached to stone pillars. On either side of the pillars stretched a tall spiked iron fence. A small intercom was attached to the left pillar.

  Annie stared. The last time she’d been to the Chandler house, there was no gate, no fence, definitely no intercom. Dr. Swanson might like to talk about travel on a golden road, but apparently he had strong feelings about anybody using his road. In the thin sunlight, the house looked brooding and withdrawn, the front piazza in deep shadow.

  What would happen if she went up and poked a button on the intercom? What if she said she was interested in learning about Evermore? Could it do any harm?