Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “Pudge, what’s happened? What are you doing here?” Did he know about the murder? Did he know the police sought him?

  Pudge’s eyes slid away from hers. “I forgot to check the depth. Pretty dumb. I thought I saw a marsh hawk and I poled in here. I poled too far.”

  Annie was her mother’s daughter, direct and unequivocal. “The police are after you.” She wished he would look at her, but he stared stubbornly at the green, rippling water.

  “The police?” The muscles of his face tightened. Now he looked up, but he didn’t see Annie. His eyes were wide, staring, speculative, shocked.

  But not surprised.

  Annie waited for the question that didn’t come. He didn’t ask why the police wanted him. Annie felt a swirling emptiness. He didn’t ask.

  “Pudge, hold on.” Max’s voice was calm. “We’ll get you out. I’ll back the boat in and you can climb aboard.” Max eased forward, then back, and the boat inched nearer to Pudge. There was a rock and shudder as he climbed aboard.

  Annie waited for him to speak. But Pudge slumped in the back of the motorboat, grimly silent.

  Annie twisted in her seat. She felt the muscles in her face go slack. Her heart thudded.

  Pudge’s eyes followed her gaze, dropping to the front of his khaki slacks and the dark smear of blood on his left pants leg. As she watched, he shook his head back and forth, misery in his eyes. He stared at the stain, then fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Leaning over the side of the boat, he brought the wet cloth up and swabbed the stain.

  Annie could have told him. Blood is hard to wash away.

  Pudge scrubbed. Finally, kneeling by the rail, he spread the handkerchief, scooped up water, splashed it on his pants.

  The boat headed for the dock. Over the roar of the motor and the rush of the wind, Annie cried, “What happened? That was blood, wasn’t it?”

  Pudge made no answer. Instead, he looked past Annie at the dock and the waiting policeman. Pudge took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, his face intent, absorbed, thoughtful, a man thinking as hard and fast as he could.

  As Max nosed the boat against the pilings, next to a sleek red and white motorboat, the island police chief, Pete Garrett, strode briskly to meet them. The young police chief had taken the place of Annie and Max’s longtime friend, Chief Saulter, when Saulter retired. Pete Garrett’s round choirboy face, topped by slicked-down blond hair, was earnest, determined and pugnacious. They’d gotten to know him the past summer during the investigation into the murder of a Women’s Club volunteer. Garrett dropped into the bookstore occasionally, but he was an acquaintance, not a friend. Right this minute, his eyes gave them an intent, measuring stare before they settled on Pudge.

  Annie grabbed the ladder and climbed to the dock. The ladder creaked as Pudge followed. Whatever had happened, she didn’t believe her father was a man who could hurt anyone. She felt that deep inside as surely as she’d ever felt anything in her life. She didn’t know why he had run away—and it did look so much like flight—but Pudge wasn’t stupid. Why would he row a boat into a shallow channel between hummocks? Certainly, if he was trying to get to the mainland, he would have rowed across the Sound. More importantly, he might have despised Marguerite Dumaney, but he had no motive to kill her. These thoughts swirled in her mind as she stepped in front of the police chief. “Pete, there’s been some mistake.” She tried to sound calm. “I understand there is a call out for my father.”

  Pudge came up beside her. “It’s all right, Annie. I’ll take care of this. Officer, I’m Patrick Laurance.”

  Max came up on the other side of Pudge. “Hello, Pete. What’s going on here?”

  Annie was acutely aware not only of her father and Max and Pete Garrett, but of the dock and the gardens, of the huge house and the quiet figures who became ever more distinct in her consciousness. Shock, fear and hostility emanated from watchful faces.

  The weathered wooden dock stretched about twenty feet. It seemed uncommonly crowded, Annie and Max and Pudge, Chief Garrett and big, brawny, sweet-faced Billy Cameron. Her uneasiness deepened when Billy avoided looking at her. Billy and his wife, Mavis, had been their friends for a long time. Billy’s sober look was proof enough that Vince Ellis’s report was accurate. Yes, the police were looking for Pudge.

  She glanced at her father, seeking some reassurance that this moment was wrong, that there had been a mistake. Pudge looked calm, but, standing so near him, she could feel his tension. Her eyes dropped to his tightly clenched hands. Perhaps he sensed her gaze. Slowly, his hands relaxed, hung at his side, but his face was taut, his eyes wary, his mouth a tight line.

  Max appeared unruffled, totally at ease, his face grave but pleasant. Annie wished she had his capacity for exuding confidence, but not even the improved status of women in today’s society had equipped her with a White-Male-Now-In-Charge-No-Matter-What persona.

  In the bright sunlight, Chief Garrett’s blond hair glistened. His khaki uniform was starched and fresh. His carefully blank face revealed nothing of his thoughts, but his eyes were sharp and suspicious. He studied Pudge intently, from his lined, tense face to his sweaty shirt to the slacks with the irregular wet splotch on the left leg. “Hello, Mr. Laurance. I’m Pete Garrett of the Broward’s Rock police.” A formal nod. “Annie, Max.”

  The wooden dock stretched through the marsh to the shore. Even in December, thanks to the subtropical climate, japonica, camellias, impatiens, lantana and roses bloomed in the garden. Dogwoods, azaleas and banana shrubs cascaded in tiers down to the marsh. A boxwood maze loomed dark and enigmatic between the house and a cattail-ringed lagoon. An oyster-shell path curved from each end of the colonnaded veranda, embracing a vine-covered arbor on one side of the lagoon, a gazebo on the other. The garden was as mellow as honey and as smooth as Southern whiskey.

  The beauty of the garden emphasized the oddness of the house. Nothing could diminish the garish glitter of the aluminum tower or the mismatch of clashing materials, cedar and chrome and stucco and bronze and quartz and New England clapboard and glass and tile. Windows honeycombed the differing exteriors. Anything that happened in the garden or the maze or in the gazebo or on the dock could be observed from a dozen different spots within the house.

  Perhaps the abundance of windows accounted for the convergence on the dock. Or perhaps, whatever had happened in the Dumaney house, Chief Garrett was the focus of all the inhabitants’ attention. Everyone was there. Had they followed him to the dock like tails to a kite or robotic lemmings?

  The circle of watchful faces at the end of the dock imbued the moment with menace. Annie felt menace, sharp and clear and hard as an ax head, menace directed at the man standing next to her. She slipped her arm through Pudge’s. His glance at her was swift and sweet and remote.

  She looked defiantly at those silent observers.

  Wayne Ladson’s pale blue eyes were cool and speculative, his sensitive, scholarly face hard and unfriendly. He smoothed his neat Vandyke beard.

  Terry Ladson’s ruddy complexion verged on purple. He held to the back of a garden bench as if the earth weren’t steady beneath his feet.

  Donna Farrell’s pale blue blouse and simple gray wool slacks were a good foil for her icy blondness. One hand held tight to her pearl necklace as her eyes shifted uneasily from face to face.

  Joan Ladson clutched a basket holding a half dozen roses. She looked like a suburban matron whose car had broken down on the wrong side of town.

  Alice Schiller was almost invisible in the gloom beneath low-hanging live oak branches. Wisps of Spanish moss dangled near her. Of them all, she looked most stricken, her hands twisting together. This morning her resemblance to Marguerite Dumaney was muted, her dark red hair straggly, her delicate complexion wan.

  Chief Garrett stared at Pudge, but he spoke to Max. “We’re investigating a murder. We received a call at nine minutes after eight o’clock reporting discovery of a body. We arrived at eight-twenty. We have met a
ll the members of the household except Mr. Laurance. We would like to speak with Mr. Laurance.” Garrett was well aware of the interested observers. “If you will accompany me, sir, we—”

  Max took a single step forward. “Mr. Laurance will decline to answer questions until he has consulted with counsel.”

  Pudge almost spoke, then shrugged.

  Chief Garrett looked from Pudge to Max. “Will you assure me that Mr. Laurance will be available this afternoon for an interview? If not, I will take him into custody now as a material witness.”

  “Definitely, Chief.” Max was brisk. “How about two o’clock at your office?”

  At Garrett’s nod, Max took Pudge’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s go up to the house.”

  Pudge looked past Garrett at the watching faces. “Maybe they don’t want me up there.”

  Max said loudly, “I know you intend to help as much as you can in the investigation with what limited knowledge you have of the situation. We all hope that Chief Garrett quickly uncovers the truth.”

  Annie would have liked to hug Max. He was telling the world—or at least everyone within earshot—that Pudge Laurance never killed anyone. Yet all Max knew was what she knew, that there had been murder and Pudge had blood on his slacks and he had taken a rowboat into the Sound.

  No one spoke. The watching faces held suspicion and uneasiness as she and Max and Pudge started up the dock. They were almost to the shore when a piercing voice demanded, “Why is that man free?” This voice always reached the back row. This husky, throaty, deliberate voice had thrilled millions.

  Marguerite Dumaney swept toward them in a jade-green silk robe.

  Thirteen

  HER UNFORGETTABLE FACE ravaged by grief, her eyes brilliant with pain and resolve, Marguerite demanded, “How can this be?” Her tone was low and anguished. “My sister lies dead, broken and disfigured, and this man walks free?” Her hand, the nails bloodred, pointed at Pudge. “Officer, I implore you, avenge my sister.” A stark figure in a Greek tragedy could not have summoned more force.

  Marguerite alive!

  Annie stared, bewildered, at that dramatic figure; grief-laden, yes, but still a beautiful woman, her eyes deep pools of suffering yet burning with the fire of retribution for her dead sister. Her sister!

  Pudge stumbled, stopped, shaken by her attack.

  Annie whirled, seeking his face. In his sad and staring eyes, his sunken cheeks and drooping mouth, she read the truth: Happy was dead.

  Happy, sweet-faced and kindly the night they met. Happy, angry and frustrated, striking out at Rachel. Happy, who tried so hard to live up to her name, avoiding conflict, ignoring trouble. Who would kill Happy?

  In three long strides, Marguerite reached the dock. She flung out a hand toward dumpy, shaken Joan. “Tell him.” Marguerite pointed at Chief Garrett. “Tell him what you saw.”

  Garrett lifted a broad hand. “That’s fine, Mrs. Dumaney. Our investigation is far from complete. We intend to interview everyone. But for now—”

  “I insist.” Marguerite’s voice throbbed. “The truth must be revealed. Here. Now. Joan”—her tone was imperious—“you shall speak.” A pulse throbbed in the old actress’s throat.

  Garrett looked at Marguerite Dumaney uneasily, obviously displeased to have a possible witness publicly questioned, but unwilling to precipitate a stormy scene with an emotionally distraught woman who was also the sister of the victim. Annie recalled Garrett’s address to the Broward’s Rock Women’s Club in which he pledged that the members of his force would always treat the community with concern and respect.

  Joan Ladson drew in her shoulders. She glanced toward Wayne, carefully did not look at Pudge.

  “Joan!” Marguerite commanded.

  Wayne gave a short nod.

  Joan cleared her throat. “I was down here in the garden. I love the flowers and I don’t have anything like this at home.” She looked around the luxuriant semitropical garden. Her lips twisted. “I live in an apartment.” She pointed at a cluster of rosebushes. “I was cutting buds and I heard someone running.” She shot a timid glance at Pudge. “He came down the path.” She held tightly to the basket. “He was carrying something long, something wrapped in a blanket. He didn’t see me.”

  Marguerite lifted her chin. Her eyes blazed. “What was his demeanor?”

  “That’s quite enough now.” Garrett turned to Pudge. “Mr. Laurance, if you’ll move along…”

  Pudge looked toward the rosebushes where Joan Ladson had knelt, invisible to anyone hurrying down the path from the house. Pudge shook his head, not in negation but in dismay, as if this were just one more problem, one more fact to toss into a churning equation.

  Every face was turned toward Pudge. Alice’s intelligent eyes focused on the damp patch on his slacks. Wayne smoothed his beard and glared. Terry’s color improved and he relaxed his tight grip on the back of the bench. Donna gave a little shake as if removing herself from sordidness.

  Annie’s sense of icy despair deepened. Why didn’t Pudge explain? Surely there had been a reason, a good reason, for him to run down the path carrying God knew what. And why, oh why, didn’t he say that he hadn’t killed Happy?

  But Pudge said nothing, his face abstracted, his eyes distant, a man dealing with a problem, collating, thinking, judging. Improvising?

  Marguerite’s instinct for drama led her to the heart of the moment. “Let the man speak, Officer. It’s simple, isn’t it? Let him say whether he is innocent.” She stared at Pudge, her steely gaze unwavering. “Innocence”—the pause after the word was long, mesmerizing—“has no reason for silence.”

  Pudge matched her stare, his equally hard. “Playing to the box seats, Marguerite? Save it for the next matinee. Happy’s dead and you don’t give a damn.” The hardness ebbed. Once again he looked bewildered and worried. He rubbed his eyes; then, head down, he brushed past the actress, strode up the path toward the hourse. Garrett hurriedly followed.

  Max bent close to Annie, said softly, “I’ll call Johnny Joe.” Johnny Joe Jenkins was a lawyer on the mainland, young, bright, quick and savvy. If anybody could keep Pudge out of jail, it was Johnny Joe. Max added, “See what you can find out,” as he started up the path after Pudge.

  Annie knew it made sense for her to stay behind. Pudge would be all right as long as Max was at hand. All right? Would he ever be all right? What had happened? Who would kill cheerful, smiling Happy? How had she been killed? Where? When? Why did Pudge have blood on his slacks? Would Garrett notice the wetness? Of course he would. Annie wished she didn’t feel so cold and lost. Pudge didn’t kill Happy. Of course he didn’t. Surely he didn’t…

  Marguerite’s face flushed a dark plum. The queen had not dismissed her subjects. Her elegant features sharpened. Her mouth twisted. Eyes blazing, she took one step toward the house; then, almost without pause, so smoothly the moment of anger might never have been, her face sagged into lines of sorrow. One hand clutched at her throat. “My sister. My beloved sister.” Tears welled, streaked down her face. She cried with the abandon of a lost child. “Oh, Happy, Happy.” She reached out blindly.

  Wayne stepped forward, slipped an arm around Marguerite’s bent shoulders, gently guided her to the path.

  Terry shot a skeptical look at his brother and stepmother. Instead of following their slow progress up the north path, he took a deep breath and headed for the south path, walking fast, and was soon halfway to the house. Donna flounced after him.

  Annie couldn’t hope to catch Terry or Donna without calling out. She didn’t want to attract any attention. But Joan had stopped at the rosebushes to pick up the clippers.

  Annie knew she wouldn’t have a better chance. She took two steps, then felt a firm hand on her arm. “Mrs. Darling.”

  It was shocking to turn and look into that face so uncannily similar to the ravaged beauty of Marguerite Dumaney. Yet, after the first glance, the resemblance faded. Alice Schiller had no aura of power. Her makeup-bare face conveyed no passion, no pres
ence. But the hand that clutched Annie’s arm held tight.

  “Will you help me?” There was an echo of Marguerite, but this voice was thin, unemphatic. In contrast to Marguerite’s stylish green silk robe, Alice looked shabby in a worn purple velour blouse and faded black slacks. “I must hurry to Marguerite. She needs me.”

  Annie stared into intelligent eyes now filled with concern. This woman knew Marguerite Dumaney better than any of the others and she was frightened for the aging star. Annie felt confused. Had Marguerite’s impassioned attack been a performance or was it real? Obviously, Alice Schiller saw pain instead of artifice.

  As if in answer to Annie’s unspoken judgment, Alice let go of Annie, took a step toward the house. “I don’t know how Marguerite can bear this. She counted on Happy. Always.” Alice took a deep breath. “I must go to Marguerite. But someone must help Rachel.”

  Rachel! Annie felt shaken, sick. How could she have forgotten Rachel? She’d looked around the garden and seen those watching faces and never once thought about Rachel. But it wasn’t until Marguerite’s arrival and attack on Pudge that Annie had realized that Happy was dead. That knowledge changed everything. Pudge had no real link to Marguerite, but his link to Happy was clear. Annie had been so bound up in Pudge and his obvious distress that she hadn’t grasped what Happy’s death meant. Oh, Rachel, poor baby, poor baby.

  “She’s locked in her room. She won’t open the door. She yelled at me to go away, leave her alone.” Alice looked hopefully at Annie. “You were nice to her that night at dinner and she’s talked and talked about you, called you her sister, said she finally has a sister just like she’d always wanted. Will you see if she’ll let you in?”

  Annie stared up at the house, the house with so many windows. “Poor baby.” When Annie’s mother died, Annie had been only a few years older than Rachel. She would never forget her desolation, her feeling of being utterly alone, her sense of betrayal. Most of all, she had been incredulous. How could her mother be dead? How could her mother not be?