by Carolyn Hart
“Annie.” Rachel leaned forward, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Rachel, I’m sure Chief Garrett will find out what he can about Dr. Swanson.” Annie put her napkin and plate on the tray. “He’ll check to see if Swanson has an alibi—”
Rachel burst out, “He won’t. He can’t. He killed Mom.”
“—but the police have to have proof.” Yes, there would have to be proof and an explanation for the raincoat and some kind of link established between Happy Laurance and Emory Swanson.
“Wait a minute.” Rachel’s tone was hot. She jumped to her feet. “Do you mean the police still think it was Pudge? Because he threw that stuff away and that raincoat was in his room?”
Rachel was just a kid, a kid who’d lost her mother in a shocking, brutal way, but she was too smart to lie to. Annie didn’t try. “I’m afraid so, honey.” She lifted the tray and stood. “Don’t worry, Rachel. Max is with Pudge. And I’m going to see what I can find out. Will you be okay if I leave for a while?” Annie looked doubtfully toward the house.
Rachel looked surprised. “Sure.” Her voice was patient, as one explaining the obvious. “That man’s not here.”
Annie hesitated. Although it would be a swell solution for everyone at the Dumaney house, Annie had no real belief in Emory Swanson as a stealthy, slicker-garbed murderer. Pudge had told Annie to take care of Rachel. Obviously, he thought someone at the Dumaney house had killed Happy. Was it foolish to go away and leave Rachel alone? “I don’t know,” Annie said doubtfully.
Rachel stared out at the boats. “I guess they have to keep looking. But that’s not what matters. We’ve got to find the papers. I’ve got to figure out where Mom put them.”
“You’re sure—” Annie began.
Rachel nodded vehemently. “Mom said she had papers that would keep him from getting Aunt Rita’s money.” Her forehead crinkled. “Mom must have known something really bad about him.”
Annie didn’t doubt there might be bad things to know about Emory Swanson, who had prospered by bilking the credulous. But how could Happy Laurance have obtained that kind of information? She didn’t seem the kind of person to hire a private detective. A careful study of her checkbook might answer that question. Annie wondered if Chief Garrett had taken any of Happy’s personal papers with him.
Annie looked up at the house, the huge house with so many rooms and so many places papers could be kept. Or hidden. “Where did your mom keep her checkbook, things like that?”
Rachel said uncertainly, “I think in the desk in the library. I’ll go see.” She was poised to rush up the path.
Annie gripped her arm. “Wait, Rachel. You and I can look together when I get back. Why don’t you go up to your room and write down everything you can remember about yesterday and what your mom said and did. That would be the best help.”
Rachel thought it over. “Then we’ll look together for the papers?”
Annie thought the possibility of finding Happy’s “papers” was about as likely as Chief Garrett releasing Pudge.
“That’s what we’ll do.” Annie turned to go.
Rachel called after her, “What are you going to do? Check up on that man?”
“I’ll see what I can find out.” Annie waved and hurried toward the dock. There was no way she would tell Rachel her true plan.
Seventeen
MAX DELIBERATELY CHOSE a chair in the corner of the conference room. He sat very quietly, knowing he was there on sufferance. Johnny Joe Jenkins made no objection because Pudge had insisted that Max be permitted to remain while Garrett interrogated him. Garrett didn’t care as long as he got answers and as long as those answers were captured on tape. Bright spotlights beamed from either side of the videocam stand.
The bright lights illuminated every line, every crease in Pudge’s face, every gray strand in his blond hair and mustache. Whether from the harsh lighting or fatigue, Pudge’s skin looked as pasty and shiny as bread dough. Even though the room was cool, tiny beads of sweat clung to his forehead. He sat stiffly on a yellow oak straight chair, his body still, his gray eyes alert and wary. Beside him, Johnny Joe Jenkins folded his arms, his strong face impassive. Across the narrow conference table, a loose-leaf notebook open before him, sat Garrett.
Max listened as Garrett punched on the videocam and repeated the Miranda warning. “Mr. Laurance, I’d like to get a little background here. Give me your name, residence and relationship to the deceased.”
“Patrick Laurance, most recently living in Puerto Vallarta, former husband.” He seemed to relax a little against the chair back.
“You arrived here when? And for what purpose?”
“Last weekend. On Saturday. Happy invited me to spend Christmas with them. But I actually came because I wanted to find my daughter.” He looked toward Max for an instant. “When Happy called, she was upset. She wasn’t really specific about the problem, but it was something to do with her sister and this psychic business. I didn’t see that I could help, but I was eager to visit the island, so I agreed to come.”
“Did Mrs. Laurance tell you she had papers containing information about Dr. Swanson that could discredit him?” Garrett’s hand was poised over his notebook.
Pudge looked surprised. “Papers? No, she didn’t say anything about papers. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but she went on and on about how awful it was, that Swanson was a crook and he was taking advantage of Rita. Happy was really upset after the dinner Wednesday night when Rita said she was going to sign over everything to Swanson for some kind of Golden Path. I didn’t quite get it, but Rita thinks she’s communicating with her dead husband through this Swanson fellow. She’s decided to give him money to create some kind of psychic foundation. As a matter of fact, the whole family was livid.”
“Did your former wife tell you what she intended to do about Dr. Swanson?”
“Do?” Pudge tugged at his mustache. “What could she do about it?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Mr. Laurance.”
Pudge ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know.”
“What conversation did you have with Mrs. Laurance on Thursday?”
“I—I don’t exactly remember.”
Garrett flipped through the pages. “I have an eyewitness who said, ‘Happy and Pudge were yelling at each other. I didn’t hear a lot of it. I walked on, but she was crying and he told her he’d had enough and he was getting out and he stormed up the stairs.’”
Johnny Joe Jenkins leaned close to Pudge, murmured in his ear.
Pudge shook his head.
The only sound in the windowless interior room was the whir of the videocam.
Pudge clamped his hands on the edge of the table.
“What were you quarreling about, Mr. Laurance?”
“It wasn’t a quarrel. She was acting like an idiot. That’s all. I told her so.”
“You went upstairs and packed?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t leave. Why not?”
“I changed my mind.” Pudge’s lips closed tight.
“Why?”
Pudge didn’t answer.
“When did you next talk to Mrs. Laurance?”
“I didn’t.”
“That was the last time you spoke with her?” Garrett’s voice was heavy with disbelief.
“That’s right. I didn’t see her again until I found her body this morning.” Pudge’s blank look splintered for an instant, his face creasing with pain and remembered horror.
“Tell me about this morning, Mr. Laurance.”
Pudge moved restively. “I’ve told you.”
“I’d like to hear it again, Mr. Laurance. Start from the first. What time did you get up?”
“Around seven-thirty. I shaved and showered—”
“You showered?”
“Yes.” Pudge’s eyes darkened with anger.
Garrett made a note. “You dressed? Can you give me a list of the clothing you brought to the islan
d?”
“I can. I sure as hell can. Two pairs of khakis—”
Max liked Pudge’s combative tone. He got it, of course. Garrett was trying to make him account for his clothes. But if Pudge had killed his ex-wife, he would simply leave something out. Garrett would talk to others at the house, get a description of what Pudge had worn each day. If any outfit was missing, it would be indirect evidence against Pudge.
“—four sports shirts, two sweaters, a navy suit, black loafers”—Pudge pointed down to his shoes—“a sweatshirt, sweat pants, jogging shoes, two pairs of white socks, two pairs of black socks, four T-shirts, four pairs of boxer shorts, blue cotton pajamas. And that’s all. You’ll find every piece of it in my room.”
“In your suitcase?” Garrett watched him closely.
Pudge was completely relaxed. “Right. Take a look.”
“We have, Mr. Laurance. We found the yellow raincoat.”
Pudge was still relaxed. “I don’t have a yellow raincoat. Or an umbrella.” His lips curved in a small smile. “I guess I’m of the old school. Men don’t carry umbrellas. I figured out I wouldn’t melt a long time ago.”
There was no answering smile from Garrett. But his eyes were puzzled.
Max felt like jumping to his feet and shouting hooray.
Garrett pushed back his chair. “I’ll be right back.”
As the door clicked behind him, Pudge turned toward Max. “What’s the big deal about a yellow raincoat?”
The soft hum of the videocam continued.
Johnny Joe looked at Max, too.
Max diverted them. “Johnny Joe, can you see about getting bail set?”
“Sure.” His mellifluous courtroom voice filled the small gray-walled room, added life and color. “As soon as we get finished here, I’ll pop over to see the judge.” He grinned approvingly at Pudge. “You’re doing fine.”
The door squeaked open. Garrett stepped inside, carrying a blue soft-sided Pullman-size suitcase. His hands were encased in plastic gloves. A white tag dangled from one handle. He set the case on the table.
“Can you identify this suitcase, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge craned his head. He pointed at a metal nameplate dangling from a leather strap. “Sure. See, there’s my name. It’s mine.”
Garrett stood beside the table. He leaned over and carefully unzipped the case. He lifted the lid.
Pudge jerked back from the table. His eyes widened. He stared at the crumpled yellow slicker with its dark maroon stains. “My God, that’s awful.” He stared at the bloody plastic in horror. “That’s not mine. I didn’t put that in my suitcase. Somebody else did.”
“Who, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge glared at Garrett. “How should I know? How the hell should I know? I never saw that in my life.”
Garrett folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t recognize the raincoat?”
“No.”
“Would it surprise you to learn that this raincoat belongs to your stepdaughter?”
Pudge froze. The anger fell away as quickly as the sun sets in a tropical sea, there one instant, gone the next. “Who says so?”
“She does.”
Pudge said nothing.
Garrett bent forward. “Isn’t it true, Mr. Laurance, that you found this raincoat, recognized it and took it from Mrs. Laurance’s room?”
“No.” Pudge stared at the open suitcase.
“There was no sweater, was there, Mr. Laurance?”
“I saw a sweater. I thought it was Rachel’s. I must have been wrong.”
“What did you take from that room, Mr. Laurance?’
Pudge rubbed his eyes. “The sweater.” His voice was stubborn. “And the poker. I wrapped them in an afghan.”
“You took a poker?”
“Yes.”
“What poker, Mr. Laurance?”
Pudge shook his head irritably. “There was a poker lying there. It was”—he swallowed—“covered with blood.”
“There is no poker missing from that fireplace.”
“Then somebody brought it from somewhere else.”
“We’ve checked all the fireplaces, Mr. Laurance. The fire tools at each fireplace are complete.”
Pudge stared straight ahead. “All I know is what I saw. I don’t know anything about the poker or where it came from.”
“Or anything about this raincoat?” Garrett pointed at the opened suitcase.
“I’ve never seen that raincoat. Never.”
Garrett leaned over the table, closed the case, zipped it. He still wore the plastic gloves. He picked up the suitcase. “I’ll be right back.”
The door closed behind him.
Pudge turned quickly to Max. “Is he telling the truth? Is that Rachel’s raincoat?”
“She said it was. But she was as shocked as you are, Pudge.”
“I don’t understand. I packed up Wednesday night and I was living out of my suitcase. I didn’t unpack.”
Max nodded. Johnny Joe listened intently.
“This morning I got out my shaving kit. I left the case open on one of the beds when I went down the hall to Happy’s room. I don’t see how that raincoat got in my suitcase. Or when. It sure wasn’t in Happy’s room this morning.”
Max punched a fist against his palm. “That means the raincoat was taken from the room after Happy was killed. It must have been hidden somewhere else. Sometime this morning, somebody put it in your suitcase. That gives us a couple of things to look for: the first hiding place for the raincoat and who had access to your room between the time you left in the boat and Garrett brought you upstairs.”
But Pudge was staring at the table, his face creased in thought.
That was when the door opened and Garrett walked inside. He wasn’t alone. Billy Cameron followed, cradling a spread-out black garbage bag.
“Put it on the table, Billy.”
Eighteen
“THANKS, INGRID. IF you’ll take care of everything at the store…No. Nobody knows what happened.” Annie reached out to stroke Dorothy L. as she rolled on her back on the kitchen counter next to the phone. “Apparently Happy was killed around midnight. No suspects yet.” Except her father, but Annie wasn’t going to put that into words. Of course, Rachel was convinced that Emory Swanson killed her mother. Annie rubbed behind Dorothy L.’s ears. Emory Swanson…“Listen, Ingrid, see what you and Duane can find out about Emory Swanson. There’s a suggestion Happy Laurance knew something that would keep him from getting big bucks from Marguerite Dumaney…. Right. I’ll check with you later.”
Annie hung up the phone and scooped up the purring white cat. “Nobody knows more people than Ingrid and Duane.” Ingrid not only worked at the bookstore, she and her husband, a retired newspaper editor, managed Nightingale Courts, a complex of rental cabins on the Sound. Annie nuzzled Dorothy L. “From little acorns…” she murmured. Who knew what might happen if a rumor swirled around the island that the murdered woman and Swanson were at odds?
Annie glanced around the kitchen, at the breakfast dishes still unwashed. Carrying Dorothy L. over her shoulder, she wandered to the kitchen table and picked up the rest of her sweet roll. Breakfast seemed eons ago. But she knew she was dallying. She didn’t really want to do what had to be done. Would Rachel be furious? Oh yes, of course, if she learned of Annie’s efforts.
Rachel. Pudge. They both mattered to her. She didn’t want to choose between them. But she would not protect one at the expense of the other.
Frowning, Annie picked up the memo pad beside the phone and found a pen. She wrote fast, ripped off the sheet and propped it beside the phone.
It was only two blocks from the Broward’s Rock Police Station to Parotti’s Bar and Grill. Max walked fast. Pudge in jail. Garrett on his way back to the Dumaney house. At the pay phone in front of Parotti’s, Max plunked in the coins. He tried home. No answer. He left a message, then dialed Annie’s cell phone. No answer.
“Damn.” Max looked across the street. The island’s one t
axi was parked in front of the ferry boatdock. Its owner, Joe Bob Kelly, sat on the pier, legs dangling, holding a fishing pole. A good day for black drum or flounder. So, one problem solved. He could get a ride home and get his car. But Garrett was on his way to the Dumaney house. Max yanked up the phone, dropped his coins and called information. He was taking a lot on himself, but he felt there was no time to lose. If only Judge (ret.) Halladay was home. And if only Max could persuade him to take on a client, who needed help now. The operator came on the line. Max added fifty cents for the number to be dialed. A gruff voice answered and Max spoke urgently. “Judge Halladay…”
Two cars were at the pumps at Parotti’s Gas’N’Go. Annie waited until both drivers had paid before stepping inside the convenience store. Sleigh bells jingled as the door closed.
Mike’s eyes were startled, then eager. He came around the counter, hurried toward her. “Is Rachel all right? I can’t get through to her. I called as soon as I got her message. But I had to come here after school.”
Annie studied him, large dark eyes, regular features, dimpled chin. He was boy-next-door handsome. “She called you?”
“This morning. But I’d already left. I didn’t pick up the message until I got here.” He clenched his hands. “She was crying and she said somebody’d killed her mom and everything was awful, but I should wait to hear from her. I’ve been trying to get somebody to take over for me, but it’s Christmas. Everybody’s busy. I get off at five. I’ll go over.” He rubbed his face. “I guess I can’t go to the house. Could you ask her to meet me at the gazebo?”
Annie said offhandedly, “Is that where you met last night? Before you went up to Rachel’s room?”
He blinked in surprise. “Did she tell you? I thought—” He broke off.
“That she wanted you not to tell anyone?” Annie was sure that had been part of Rachel’s message to Mike. “But”—and she kept her voice matter-of-fact—“we need to figure out if you saw anything last night that could help.”