Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “Probably all the way to the cemetery. I suspect Go-Dog is quite concerned.” Annie picked up a brownie, too. It wouldn’t be fair to say she was mad at Laurel, but Annie didn’t relish the fact that Laurel had made a spectacle of herself and worried Annie to pieces. Annie had intended to be cool, not to indicate by so much as the quiver of an eyelash that she personally had feared for her mother-in-law’s sanity. Instead, she blurted, “Dammit, Laurel, what are you up to?”

  Laurel daintily finished her brownie. “I believe they call it entrapment in some circles.” She waved her hand. “Whatever.”

  Max brought a steaming mug to his mother, another to Annie. He sat beside Annie on the peppermint-striped sofa. Dorothy L. immediately trotted across the back of the couch and jumped to his lap. “Okay, Ma. You’ve got everyone on the island talking about your trips to the cemetery. Now, what’s the deal about Swanson? And who’s Kate Rutledge?”

  Laurel nodded in satisfaction. “They are my link to the Golden Path. You see, my visits with Go-Dog were quite a success.”

  Annie almost choked on the hot coffee. She stared at her mother-in-law, who apparently thrived on midnight outings, her blue eyes dancing with pleasure, her pink lips curved in sheer satisfaction.

  “Laurel, you did not talk to Go-Dog.” Annie realized her tone was strident, but it had been a long day with too much raw emotion, especially the ugly scene at the Dumaney house when Happy slapped Rachel and ordered Annie to leave. It hadn’t helped matters when Pudge was late to arrive and she thought that once again she’d hoped too much to see her father. And all through the day, she’d worried about Laurel.

  “Annie, you are such a dear! So predictable. So earnest!” Laurel gazed at Annie in apparent admiration.

  Max glanced at Annie, then said quickly, “Okay, Ma, okay. You’ve had fun. Everybody on the island thinks you’re nuts. But we know you’re not.” He avoided Annie’s skeptical gaze.

  “Oh”—Laurel’s tone was light—“of course, I am a little crazy. That’s why Miss Dora thought of me. She called, you see. A friend of hers is in the toils…” Laurel frowned, cocked her head, murmured, “Coils…snare…web? Ah yes, the web of Emory Swanson.” Just for an instant, her sparkling blue eyes were speculative and sharply intelligent. “A most unscrupulous man, I’m afraid. In any event, Miss Dora is quite concerned. Her friend is apparently signing over all of her property to Swanson because he has reunited her with her dead husband. Now”—Laurel’s smile was gay and insouciant—“I have enough late husbands”—she looked fondly at Max—“to be quite aware that those who go before are always with us. That is not in question. But”—and her face was suddenly stern—“there is no need to clutch crystals and to sit in a darkened room with someone breathing heavily.” Distaste flickered in her eyes. “No, indeed.”

  Annie looked at her blankly. Hadn’t Laurel delved into ESP and the supernatural when Ingrid Jones went missing right after Annie and Max’s wedding? “But you and Ophelia Baxter—”

  Laurel flicked her hand, dismissing Ophelia. “Fun’s fun. Besides, Ophelia genuinely believes in ESP. She means well. I do not think”—and there was an unaccustomed severity to Laurel’s husky voice—“that Emory Swanson means well in the least. He is, in fact, a grasping, clever, unscrupulous man who takes advantage of vulnerable women. So, of course, I told Miss Dora I would take care of it.”

  Max stroked Dorothy L. and studied his mother. “Just like that?” he inquired. “You told Miss Dora you’d take care of it? Of Swanson and the women who have fallen for his spiel?”

  Laurel clapped her hands in delight. “Maxwell, you put it so succinctly. His spiel, yes, indeed, just like one of those medicine men who used to wander from town to town. People were so gullible. Not that they’re any smarter today. There are all those stores with concoctions that promise to make you smarter, thinner, faster, pump you up or slow you down, drop your cholesterol, improve your sex life….” She paused, gave a tiny head shake. “Why, they promise everything. When you think of the billions those companies make, it can be no surprise that Emory Swanson, who is quite charming and attractive, should be successful in taking advantage of lonely widows. But I shall fix his little red wagon.”

  Annie ate another brownie, simply for strength. “Okay, Laurel, let me get this straight. You’ve put on a charade that you’re desperate to contact Buddy…”

  Laurel nodded brightly.

  “…and you’ve convinced Swanson you’re fair game.”

  “Is that why he gave you a crystal?” Max asked.

  Laurel reached in her pocket, pulled out a triangular pink prism and held it where the light reflected in a shower of brightness. “My gateway to the Beyond. I shall devote myself to it publicly with great appreciation, and I shall cultivate Kate Rutledge, who seems always to be at the center of groups extolling the greatness of Emory Swanson. I am confident that soon I will be invited to a séance at Chandler house.” She reached into her other pocket. “And here is Emory’s ticket to trouble.” She held in her palm a circular plastic object about the size of an eighteenth century snuffbox or a woman’s small compact. The upper face of the pale gray plastic was grilled.

  “A microphone?” Max guessed. He shook his head. “It’s too little.”

  “A state-of-the-art tape recorder,” Laurel announced impressively, “which can run for a week. It is programed to desist recording from midnight to ten A.M. to conserve energy.” She bounced the small recorder on her palm. “What do you want to bet that within a week Emory Swanson in an unguarded moment will make a few statements that will shake the faith of even the truest believer?” Laurel relaxed back against the cushion. “All I have to do is get inside Chandler house. I am going to take a gift for Dr. Swanson, a photograph of myself”—was there just a bit of preening as she smoothed back a golden curl—“in a rather ornate frame with interlocking circles of plastic. This”—she held the small round recorder between thumb and forefinger—“fits very nicely within a circle. I shall insist that he keep my picture on his desk so that I may truly feel that we are in communion and that I am striving ever nearer the Golden Path.” She dropped the recorder into her pocket. “Since I shall make it clear that I am willing to shower gold upon his efforts, I do believe that picture frame will sit on his desk as requested. And oh, what an interesting story I think we shall learn.”

  Max remembered Swanson’s smug confidence as he walked to his car outside Laurel’s garden. Slowly, he nodded. “Of course, you have to hope there’s someone in his confidence who—”

  “That kind of man,” Laurel interrupted with finality, “always has an adoring woman at his beck and call. I did a little checking and I think it is quite significant that Kate Rutledge moved to the island about six months before Swanson arrived. By then she’d made herself quite familiar in island circles. She’s active in all the best women’s groups. She steers women toward him. Oh, quite tactfully and as if she scarcely knows him. The emphasis is always on the wonderful stories she’s heard from others. I just have the tiniest little suspicion that he and Kate know each rather well. It will be such fun to hear what Emory has to say when he thinks no one else can overhear.” Laurel popped to her feet. “Now I must fly.” She pulled on her cloak, tucked her hair beneath the hood. “I didn’t bring my car, of course. One can go everywhere on the bicycle paths.” She paused at the French door. “Remember, now, dear ones, We Are Estranged. Night-night.”

  As the door clicked behind her, Annie grinned. “Having a hell of a good time, isn’t she? A lady Bulldog Drummond?”

  Max didn’t grin in return. Frowning, he strode toward the French door. “Hey, I don’t like this. I’ll get the recorder from her. I’ll get it in that house somehow. I’ll find out if he has a burglar alarm”—most island homes didn’t—“and I’ll sneak into the house late one night and plant it in his office.”

  Annie was right behind him. “Not that house, you won’t.”

  Max stopped with his hand on the door. “It ought t
o be easy. There are some big live oaks near the house. I’ll bet I can get in on the second floor. Nobody’s awake at two in the morning. I’ll find out where his office is, scoot downstairs, plant the recorder and be out of there in five minutes.”

  “No way, Max. I went by there after I talked to Edith at the library. There’s a big gate now and a huge fence. When I got out of the car, two snarling Dobermans tried to take the fence down to get at me.” Annie doubted that even canine-savvy Holly Winters, Susan Conant’s sleuth, would have an answer to those dogs.

  Max opened the door, stepped onto the terrace. “She’s gone.” He turned back to Annie. “I don’t like this. If Swanson finds that microphone, he’ll know who brought it.”

  They stepped back into the den. As Max locked the door, Annie shrugged. “Even if he finds the recorder, what can he do? He might be furious, but you can bet he won’t call the cops. He doesn’t want any scandal to touch him.”

  Max checked the fire, made sure the screen was in place. In the glow of the embers, his face was somber. “It’s not the police I’m worried about. Swanson’s about to hit it big with Marguerite Dumaney. I don’t think he’ll stop at much to make sure the deal goes through. As for Kate Rutledge, I don’t know if Ma’s right about her being directly linked to Swanson, but the lady gives me bad vibes. Laurel may be up against more than she realizes.”

  Twelve

  ANNIE PUT DOWN Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer place mats, a jaunty Rudolph bounding over a chimney top. She began to hum.

  Max opened the oven door and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon and fresh baking.

  Annie smiled as he placed a Christmas-wreath plate in front of her. White icing oozed over the cinnamon roll. “Mmm, thank you,” she said appreciatively. Annie picked up the morning paper and smiled at a photo from the North Pole. As she ate and read, she felt the familiar Christmas happiness, a compound of eagerness and panic, so much to look forward to, so little time to get everything done. Not only did she need to get her packages off to Max’s sisters and their families, she was only halfway done with the rest of her list and now she needed to make some additions. What would suit for a newfound father and sister?

  She looked over the top of the paper. “Max, maybe I could start with a stocking. The Spice Girls?” She looked at him doubtfully.

  Max looked blank for a moment, then nodded. “Rachel? Oh, that’s probably old hat by now. Why don’t you ask Mike?”

  “Max, you are brilliant!”

  Max basked in her admiration.

  Annie looked at him with a sudden surge of love. How wonderful to know that even a light compliment meant so much to him. But no more than his words always meant to her. She gave him a huge smile, knowing he would smile in return. He did.

  “What could I get Pudge?” She put the paper down.

  “How about a sweater?” Max looked suddenly eager. “Do you suppose he plays golf?”

  Annie didn’t know, but now the lack of knowledge didn’t hurt. She and Max would be learning lots about her father. Somehow she was confident that Pudge did play golf and that he and Max would be golfing buddies. Of course Pudge played golf. What other answer could there be on a perfect morning with golden sunlight spilling into their kitchen?

  Annie loved the glistening expanse of windows, windows everywhere, letting in the light. On a cloudless day the house shimmered with light, shining through windows and spilling down from skylights. But even on a cloudy day, the house made her happy because it reflected their love. That’s what Pudge had felt last night. It was what she hoped he would always feel when he came to see them.

  Annie felt afloat in happiness. Everything was going to be fine for all of them and this Christmas would be one they would never forget.

  The phone rang.

  Annie glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty on Friday morning ranked a little early for a social call. As Annie reached for the phone, she checked the caller ID: The Island Gazette. She frowned. “Hello?”

  “Annie, Vince Ellis here.” Vince was an old friend as well as owner and editor of The Island Gazette.

  Annie knew him well, and the tone of his voice, concerned and carefully controlled, made her neck prickle. “Vince, what’s wrong?”

  “Maybe nothing,” he said swiftly. “Thought I’d check. Is the Patrick Laurance staying at Dumaney house your father?”

  Obviously Vince had heard that Annie’s father was visiting the island. That Vince knew about her father’s arrival came as no surprise. Vince always knew what was going on around the island. But he wouldn’t call unless something was wrong. She stood quite still and stiff. “Yes.”

  “I picked up a call on the police scanner. There’s been a murder there. A woman.” Vince cleared his throat. “The police have rounded up everybody staying at the house. Apparently your father is missing. The police want to talk to him.”

  “An APB? Is that what you mean, Vince?” This was no time for Vince to try and soften his words. If the police had sent out an all-points-bulletin for Pudge, they must believe Pudge was somehow involved in the death. Or had something happened to him? “He’s missing?” She was startled by a rush of panic.

  “Hold on, Annie. He’s probably out for a walk, something like that.” Vince must have heard the fear in her voice. “There’s no suggestion that anything’s happened to him.”

  A murder at the Dumaney house and Pudge gone. Annie clutched the phone. The police couldn’t be looking for Pudge. Not the tired-faced, genial man with her eyes and hair, not the man who had looked admiringly around her house and called it a happy place. But she felt sheathed in ice as she remembered his parting words about Marguerite, “…that woman’s so damn poisonous, it’s a miracle nobody’s murdered her!”

  “I’m sorry, Annie.” Vince’s voice was gentle. “Look, I’ll see what I can find out. I don’t know a damn thing more, who got killed or where or why the APB. I’ll find out.” Vince started his career covering murders in Miami. He knew how to dig. “I’ll get back to you.”

  The minute Vince hung up, Annie called the Dumaney house. A busy signal rasped in her ear.

  As the speedboat crested the swells in the sound, Annie shaded her eyes against the sun. She wanted to urge Max to go faster, but the boat was spanking against the water. Going by water was Max’s idea and she’d approved at once. If Vince’s information was accurate, if there had indeed been a murder at the Dumaney house, the drive would be barricaded, visitors barred. The chances of being let through were slim to none. Annie didn’t think being the missing guest’s daughter would get them past a police barricade. The missing guest! If the word hadn’t come from Vince, a man she knew and trusted, she would have hooted at the idea. Even so, there must have been a huge mistake, a terrible misunderstanding, if the police truly were seeking Pudge. Pudge might not have liked Marguerite Dumaney, but he had no reason to kill her. He was just a guest. The police needed to look at Marguerite’s family. They’d find plenty of suspects there. Annie wouldn’t mind telling them so. Fine spray misted her face and hair, dampened her navy cardigan and gray slacks.

  Annie pointed across the murky green water. “Look, there’s the tower.” The gay red bunting wrapped around the shiny aluminum tower made the Dumaney house easy to spot.

  Max slowed the boat as they neared the estuary. Vegetation-choked hummocks poked up from the water. Max edged into a channel leading to the inlet. The small islands screened the shore. As the boat headed for the deeper channel, Annie craned to see. Through an open space, she spotted the Dumaney dock. Although too far away to be sure, she was afraid she recognized a tall, sturdy figure standing at the end of the dock. “We may have a welcoming committee. I think it’s Billy.” Billy Cameron was a good friend, but he was also a sergeant in the island’s small police force. Annie tried different approaches in her mind: Billy, I’ve got to see my sister, or maybe, Billy, what the heck does it mean that there’s a pick up order out for my dad?

  Or would it be better to pretend they’d taken a s
pin (on a Friday morning when the store would be brimming with Christmas orders?) and dropped by to see Rachel, then insist upon staying—after all, they were family—when informed there had been a death? That’s when families draw together. Nobody could dispute that Annie and Rachel were stepsisters.

  Rachel. Annie felt a sudden breathlessness. What if Rachel or Mike had attacked Marguerite? They were certainly angry enough and so young that violent emotion could destroy judgment. “Max—”

  “Shh.”

  Startled, she jerked her head toward him.

  “Back there,” Max murmured. He put the boat in reverse. They were in shallow water here, winding past the hummocks toward the estuary. Cattails and spartina quivered in the onshore breeze. Black ducks flapped into flight as the boat neared. A white ibis on a near hummock stood elegantly on a live oak limb. They passed so near, Annie could see the brilliant red of the ibis’s bill and legs and the snowy white plumage.

  Max watched over his shoulder, cautiously ran the boat in reverse. There was not enough room to turn in the narrow waterway. The boat slid quietly through the water, the sound of the motor a low murmur. They were in a world hemmed in by hummocks. A smell of rotting vegetation overlaid the scent of brackish water. The boat backed across a narrow channel between two hummocks. Max idled the engine and they looked into a dim corridor of dull water bounded by thick, tangled vegetation.

  A rowboat was wedged at the narrowest point. Pudge Laurance, the muscles in his shoulders bunched, shoved hard against a hummock with an oar. At the sound of the motor, his head jerked toward them. He didn’t speak for a moment. Finally, his voice oddly colorless, he said, “Guess I got myself in a mess. I’m stuck.”

  Annie looked in vain for the genial man she’d talked to last night. This sweaty, pale-faced stranger wasn’t the man who had asked her to give him a chance to be her father.