Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie raised an eyebrow. “I’d say the Ladson family has a little trouble with interpersonal relationships. So it’s probably going to be one big happy family. Not. Oh well, birthday parties are usually fun.” She ran her fingers through her hair, knew she was stressed. “So they’re all here for a birthday bash. Do they like their stepmom that much?”

  “Hmm.” Max’s tone was cautious. “I didn’t get that impression. More that Marguerite is the Big Daddy Warbucks and everybody pretty well taps when she says dance.”

  But Annie had lost interest in Marguerite Dumaney and her entourage. She squinted at Max. “How come her sister lives with her?” If Happy had been married to Annie’s father and had a daughter Rachel’s age, she was not young.

  “Pudge didn’t say, but I got the idea it might be money. Or the lack of it. Happy’s been married three times, each one poorer than the last, and like the rest of the Ladson kids, she grew up rich but Marguerite got the money when their father died.” Max slowed and peered into the dark night. A raccoon loped across the road. “Apparently, Happy’s always had a talent for deadbeats. I mean—” he began hastily.

  Annie said sharply, “Including my father?”

  “I didn’t put that well. Pudge pays his bills. But he’s never made a lot of money and neither did her other two husbands, so Happy ended up broke not long after she and Pudge split. Anyway, Happy will be at the party, as will Rachel, her daughter from her second marriage. Plus the Ladson siblings, Wayne, Terry and Donna. And Pudge. And Wayne’s ex-wife, Joan. And us. Oh, and Marguerite’s companion, Alice Schiller. They’ve been together since their Hollywood days when Alice was Marguerite’s stand-in. She’s always in attendance. And the crystal man, of course. Pudge says it will be easy to keep everybody straight. Marguerite’s a star. Her companion is a pale imitation of the original. Happy is always happy. Or trying damn hard to look happy. Rachel’s the kid. Wayne has a short, neat beard. Terry’s face has seen too much sun and been in too many bars. Donna might be pretty if her lips didn’t have a permanent pout. Wayne’s ex-wife looks sad or mad most of the time. Apparently, the crystal man is the only happy camper in the bunch.”

  Max turned onto Sand Dollar Road, picked up speed.

  Annie clasped her hands together, staring out the window into the winter dark and the huge pines briefly illuminated by the car lights. “The only reason I’m going is the girl. I don’t want to talk to my father. Tell him that.”

  “Pretend it’s just another party.” Max sounded jovial, but his glance toward her was searching. “That will make it easier.”

  “Just another party,” she said bitterly. “Oh, sure. Given by a crazy, rich ex-actress for a man who thinks crystals are a path to another world. And what a swell guest list, a bunch of down-and-outers fawning over the rich relation. And featuring—oh, this is just a minor note—an emotional girl who wants me to be her big sister, a man who happens to be my father and a stepmother I’ve never met. Some party.”

  Max reached out, squeezed her hand.

  She looked straight ahead. “You and”—she hesitated, then said, “Pudge…that’s a damn silly name.”

  Max slowed, peered ahead. “Why aren’t there any streetlights?” He turned into a bricked drive. A signpost announced: MARGUERITE DUMANEY.

  It was an oft-voiced complaint since his arrival on the island. “A more natural environment,” Annie replied absently. She continued briskly, “Okay. You and Pudge have talked this over.”

  “He said Happy’s upset about tonight, but he can’t get her to tell him why. I told him we’d try to talk to Swanson, see if we can find out what he’s up to. I’ll lead him on, then announce at some point that Laurel’s my mother and see how he reacts.”

  “Happy.” Annie shook her head. “That’s even sillier than Pudge.”

  Max shot her a glance as he squeezed the Ferrari between a silver Bentley and Pudge’s blue Ford. “We’re here.”

  “Just another party…” Annie murmured.

  Six

  ANNIE HAD ALWAYS enjoyed the flair for originality on Broward’s Rock, unlike Hilton Head, where zoning laws determined everything from house color to yard decorations (one plantation prohibited children’s treehouses). As she and Max walked up the wide shallow steps that rose in gradual tiers, she realized zoning laws might have a reasonable basis. This house—or should she call it a mansion or a castle or perhaps an architect’s nightmare?—certainly qualified as individual. It rose at different points to four stories and the building materials included chrome, bronze, quartz, cedar, stucco, New England clapboard, tile and copper. Rooms jutted at odd angles and the whole was topped by a thirty-foot aluminum tower. A red banner wrapped around the tower was no doubt intended to look like a candy cane. It looked more like a spaceship in an alternate universe.

  “I’d guess six,” Annie whispered.

  “Huh?” Max took her elbow and steered her around a fifteen-foot, barnacle-encrusted, upside down anchor leaning against a pile of rocks. Holly garlands dangled from the flukes.

  “Six architects at least.” She stopped, pointed to her right. “Max, look at that!”

  A glistening glass whale spewed varicolored streams of water in the center of an enormous bricked fountain. Just past the fountain, huge boulders arched, creating a cave. Tongues of fire flickered within the cave mouth. Suddenly the fiery plumes billowed and a dragon’s head emerged. A Christmas wreath bright with holly encircled the dragon’s neck.

  “Cool!” Max marveled. “Do you suppose Hot Breath’s guarding a treasure chest?”

  “With golden doubloons? Maybe.” She moved swiftly ahead. “I guess you can take the girl out of the movie set, but you can’t take the movie set out of the girl. Let’s see what other wonders await us.”

  They walked on a cobbled bridge across a moat to a massive wooden door studded with glass bubbles pulsing with changing colors: orange, purple, rose, aqua, gold. Each bubble was encircled by a miniature Christmas wreath. Max pulled a silver chain and a bell pealed.

  When the door opened—

  Max smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Darling.”

  —Annie was relieved to be welcomed by a slender older woman with a perfectly ordinary appearance. Dark red hair drawn sleekly back emphasized a bony face and intelligent eyes. A Christmas tree brooch was the only spot of color against a high-necked navy silk dress.

  “I’m Alice Schiller. Please come this way.” She led them down a two-story flagstone hall. Along the wall marched a row of miniature spruce trees decorated with shiny green bows.

  Annie was a little disappointed at the dusky medieval tapestries. Surely an old set of armor or a moose head or flickering candles would have been more appropriate. Their shoes clicked on the stones and far ahead light spilled through an arch and voices murmured.

  Their guide stepped aside for them to enter a long drawing room where Marie Antoinette might have enjoyed cakes and conversation, the plush furniture decorated with carved acanthus leaves, scrolls, ribbons, flowers and scallop shells. Heavy maroon velvet hangings draped twelve-foot-tall windows. But the eye was drawn immediately to the far end of the room and the older woman in crimson silk who lounged in a Louis XV armchair on a low dais. The entire wall behind her was covered by an eighteenth century Flemish tapestry. A spotlight in the ceiling, not harsh but soft and silvery, played down over her, emphasizing the rich auburn of her hair, the blazing dark eyes, hollowed cheeks and bloodred lips, the fiery dress and an outflung hand, the long tapering fingers brilliant with glittering diamonds and rubies. Flocked Christmas trees strung with blue lights sat at either end of the dais, but they were small and didn’t detract from that lounging figure. The bejeweled hand made an imperious gesture.

  A thin voice beside Annie said quietly, “She wants to meet you.”

  Annie glanced into Alice Schiller’s dark eyes, noting that her auburn hair was flecked with silver. But those deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks and full lips…Annie glanced at the dais, then looked in surprise at the w
oman beside her.

  Pale lips, bare of color, stretched in an ironic smile. “Yes, we still look alike. When we were young, I could fool everyone. Even her husband.” A shrug. “But that was a long time ago. And looks matter more to Marguerite. She says I’m a dowdy old fool without an ounce of style. But that’s all right. Style belongs to her. Come, it’s best not to keep Marguerite waiting.”

  The long room looked curiously empty despite the assorted chairs and sofas. Like courtiers subservient to a queen, the other guests stood near the dais, watching as Annie and Max and their guide neared. There was easily enough space in the room for a party of fifty. Perhaps the grandeur and immensity of the room contributed to the sense of sparse occupancy, gave the handful of people standing near the dais the forlorn appearance of shipwrecked survivors on an uninhabited atoll, uneasy at their present state, wary of their future.

  As they grew nearer, Annie was even more aware of their hostess’s gift for drama. Marguerite Dumaney’s presence made those near her bloodless and negligible. Her attendants were within range to be summoned, yet not quite close enough for conversation.

  Annie managed a meaningless social smile. She knew Pudge and Rachel, of course, and she’d seen the brochure with the photograph of Emory Swanson. The others she tried to identify from Max’s description. The lanky man with longish gray hair and quizzical eyes and a sleek goatee must be Wayne Ladson, the stepson who lived here. The chunky red-faced man who rocked back on his heels like he was standing on a boat had to be Wayne’s brother Terry. Annie took one swift look at an elegantly dressed woman with a sour face; a dowdy, plump woman who stood very stiff and still; and an effervescent blonde with a sweet smile, and tabbed them as Donna, Joan, and Happy.

  As she and Max stopped in front of the dais, Annie was acutely aware of Marguerite’s entourage. Her father appeared blonder than she remembered, in a bright green silk blazer. There he was, so familiar and so alien, her face, her honey-streaked hair, her gray eyes. But she didn’t know him and she never would. Not if she could help it. Pudge stared at her anxiously. Behind him loomed a ten-foot stone jaguar. The oversize sculpture made him look small.

  Wayne Ladson’s tweed jacket hung from thin, stooped shoulders. He nodded toward them, his sensitive face formal but not unfriendly.

  Terry Ladson’s eyes lit with appreciation as Annie neared. Sensual lips curved in a slow smile. Annie knew his type, always on the prowl, with a preference for married women.

  Donna Ladson Farrell’s gaze passed over Annie and Max without interest. She cupped her cheek in her hand, quite consciously posed to afford the best view of her exquisitely made-up face.

  Joan Ladson’s wispy gray hair needed a permanent. Her dress was nice quality but a decade old. Her hands were clasped tightly together, and she determinedly avoided looking toward her ex-husband.

  Happy Laurance—and how unsettling it was to share the name—half turned to watch Annie and Max walk near. Curly blond hair cupped a round, kindly face that managed, oddly, to combine distress and welcome. She blinked and the anxious lines around her eyes smoothed out. Drooping pink lips pressed together, then curved determinedly in a sweet smile. “Hello, Annie.” The words wafted in a conspiratorial whisper promising a warm welcome, after, of course, Annie and Max were presented to the queen.

  Emory Swanson’s hand rested lightly on the back of Marguerite’s chair with just a faint hint of possession. He was even handsomer live than in a photograph, his wiry silver hair tousled, his brown eyes bright with enthusiasm, his smile infectious. Annie suspected the smile was the product of careful practice. Without it, his face would have looked aggressive and challenging.

  But these were the bit players. They faded into the background as Annie looked into Marguerite Dumaney’s unforgettable face, black eyebrows arching over eyes that glowed with intensity, a high-bridged nose, hollowed cheeks beneath gaunt cheekbones, skin smoothed by tinted powder, lips as scarlet as her dress. She slowly rose, her movements as graceful as a ballerina’s, and as studied.

  Alice Schiller stepped to one side. “Marguerite, here are Pudge’s daughter and son-in-law, Annie and Max Darling.”

  Marguerite stepped forward, long, slender hand outstretched, fingers heavy with rings. Rubies blazed, emeralds flashed, diamonds glittered. Vivid, talon-sharp nails echoed the color of her lips and dress. “My dears.”

  The throaty drawl evoked a fleeting memory, a darkened movie house, Annie all of seven or eight and a woman’s face huge on the screen. Annie was grateful for Max’s tight grip on her arm. He was an anchor in a world with undefined boundaries.

  “Life”—Marguerite paused just long enough for every face to turn toward her—“is family.” Her deep voice throbbed with emotion. Her dark eyes were pools of yearning.

  Annie could almost smell popcorn. But she couldn’t pull her eyes away from that haggard yet lovely face.

  Marguerite swept off the dais, cupped Annie’s face in smooth, cold hands.

  Annie fought away a shudder at the touch of those icy, dry hands.

  Marguerite leaned so near that a silky strand of hair brushed Annie’s cheek. “You. Your father. My sister. A rapprochement after years of separation. What higher calling can we have than to come together?” Marguerite dropped her hands, whirled toward Pudge and Happy. “Come.” She clapped a bony hand on Annie’s shoulder.

  Max’s grip tightened on her arm. He murmured softly, “Annie.”

  Annie’s face flamed. She almost exploded, and then she saw her father’s stricken face, eyes wide with dismay, mouth parted in anguish. Annie’s anger shriveled like a popped balloon. She stared into his eyes and knew her father hadn’t invited this trumped-up scene. He was as distraught as she. Why should they let this bizarre old woman yank at their emotions like a puppeteer with helpless marionettes?

  Annie ignored Marguerite’s tug. “It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dumaney. I’ve always been interested”—this was true—“in the history of old films. I believe you were one of my mother’s favorite actresses. Of course, that was a long time ago.”

  Marguerite froze, her head poked forward, her eyes drawn in a scowl, her bloodred lips pursed together.

  Pudge stroked his mustache, hiding a smile. Happy gave a tiny gasp. Rachel giggled. Wayne Ladson’s eyes gleamed. Terry Ladson mouthed, Naughty girl, but kept his face turned away from Marguerite. Donna Ladson Farrell arched pencil-thin brows. Joan Ladson moved uneasily.

  Emory Swanson bounded off the dais. “Marguerite, you always exhibit the most exquisite sensitivity.” He slipped an arm familiarly around her shoulders. “Your empathy has been prompted by your own sense of family, your devotion to your husband. You promised to show me his portrait…” and his hand was firmly on her arm, moving her away from the little pool of silence created by Annie.

  Wayne Ladson strolled toward Annie and Max. He held out his hand. “Wayne Ladson. You’ll have to forgive Marguerite. She can’t resist grandstanding. So you’re Pudge’s daughter. Glad to meet you. Pudge was always my favorite uncle-in-law.”

  Wayne led them around the room. Happy was effusive and gave Annie a hug. Donna’s eyes cataloged their clothes, and she warmed up a bit. Joan was nervous and Terry too friendly. Annie and Max spoke with everyone except Rachel, who peered at them from the shadow of an indoor honeysuckle trellis festooned with twinkling miniature Christmas lights. Rachel hung back, her eyes pinned on Annie, forlorn eyes almost lost in the shadow.

  A trim young woman whom Annie recognized from the country club brought drinks. Annie opted for ginger ale. She wanted all of her wits quite clear and un-befuddled. She whispered to Max as Happy headed for them, “I was mean.”

  “No.” His eyes were admiring. “You refused to roll over and play dead. The old devil could use a few more wake-up calls. But play it cool for the rest of the night. Remember, Swanson’s our objective.”

  “I’ll be good.” She gave his arm a squeeze as he moved off after Swanson and Marguerite, who stood at the far end
of the room looking up at a portrait.

  Happy’s plump hands clutched Annie’s. “Annie, oh, Annie.” She might have just sighted a diamond necklace. “You are so lovely, so dear. I can’t tell you how much it means to Pudge to have found you after all these years.”

  Annie stared into eyes brimming with well-meaning, but already flitting past Annie to watch Marguerite Dumaney and Emory Swanson as they gazed at the portrait that hung over a fireplace fit for a baronial hall. “Oh dear, that man. Oh, I wish I knew what to do. I am so afraid of what may happen. Marguerite is so vulnerable.”

  Annie’s automatic defensiveness about her father and his late arrival in her life slipped away as she felt the tension in Happy’s tight grip and heard the quaver in Happy’s sweet, light voice.

  “Your sister seems remarkably capable of taking care of herself.” Annie’s tone was dry as she disentangled her hands from Happy’s moist grip.

  “Oh, Annie”—Happy leaned near as if they had been confidantes for a lifetime—“you simply don’t understand. Marguerite, of course, is brilliant, simply brilliant. And she is so beautiful. But don’t you think beauty can be a curse?” She looked earnestly at Annie. “It has always set her apart—”

  Annie felt confident egotism and selfishness were likely more responsible than beauty, but she found herself nodding in agreement.

  “—and made her so lonely. Of course, she was passionately in love with Claude. That explains so much about Marguerite. Nothing mattered but that she should have him. Nothing and nobody was going to stand in her way. And of course she got him. Marguerite always gets what she wants. But Claude never loved her as much as he loved the boys’ mother. That was Ellen, you know—”

  Unfamiliar names and old emotions swirled around Annie like no-see-ums on a summer day, impossible to escape, uncomfortable to experience.

  “—and I always thought Ellen died of a broken heart. Of course, everyone had warned her not to marry Claude. She was just a girl. Seventeen, I think. And she met him at a dinner party at her own house. Her father was an actor and Claude was going to produce his next film. Claude and Ellen ran way and got married not even a month later. Oh, her parents were so upset. Claude was that kind of man, you know, so attractive to women and always ruthless.” Happy shivered. “That’s where families have a responsibility. To make sure impressionable young girls don’t get carried away by their—well, children know so much about sex these days. It’s just dreadful what they see on television, and some of them having babies when they are just thirteen or fourteen…”