by Carolyn Hart
The sour smell of charred wood overlay the pungency of the salt marsh. Annie hurried toward the blackened remnants of the shed. Slowly circling the ruin, Chief Garrett studied the ground.
Annie wasn’t surprised to see him. The young chief took his duties seriously. He would want to search for clues in daylight.
He looked up as she neared. His round face was heavy with fatigue, his blue eyes somber. “Morning, Annie.” His voice was hoarse.
“Did you get any sleep?” Flashlights had winked in the shrubbery long after the police search of the house had ended.
Garrett rubbed his temple. “Some.” He swung toward the ruin. “Set with gasoline.” He looked up at the house. “Anybody could have done it.”
Annie understood and wished she hadn’t. Garrett didn’t think an intruder had crept through the night, committed arson, then waited to get into the house as its occupants straggled out to watch the fire.
“Here, Pete.” She handed him a mug of coffee.
He hesitated for an instant, then nodded his thanks.
Annie lifted her mug, welcomed the dark, rich taste. “Happy’s papers—”
He interrupted, not rudely but with weary finality. “What papers? Do you think if Happy Laurance—a non-stop talker, from what I’ve heard—had information damaging to Swanson, she would have kept it to herself? Why should she? To protect his reputation?”
It was the only time she’d ever heard Garrett be sarcastic.
He didn’t wait for a response. “As for the search in her room”—his shrug was dismissive—“that was no search. Somebody dashed in there, tossed stuff on the floor, pulled out drawers, dumped cushions.” He nodded toward the house and the third floor. “Was the kid in her room when you came out to see about the fire?”
Annie didn’t want to answer. How had Pete guessed? That had been her first move, to check for Rachel, but Rachel wasn’t in her room. Annie drank her coffee. “No.”
“Where do you suppose she was?” Blond eyebrows quirked over skeptical eyes.
Annie had no answer. Her hope was that once again Rachel was meeting Mike at the gazebo because it wasn’t until later, when the second fire engine pulled up, that Rachel had pelted across the terrace to join the others.
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck. “The circuit solicitor’s looked over what I’ve got.”
Annie gripped her coffee cup, wished its warmth could melt the ice sheathing her heart. Garrett was getting ready to make a move, and that was going to be bad for Rachel. The next step would be up to Brice Willard Posey, the circuit solicitor. Annie knew Posey. Once he made up his mind, he was as immovable as a monolith. And, in Annie’s opinion, about as bright. If Posey decided to charge Rachel…
Annie blurted, “Pete, she’s only fifteen. She couldn’t have made up those papers. That’s crazy.”
Garrett gingerly rotated his head. “Damn neck,” he muttered. “You don’t think she’s smart enough? Crafty enough? Cruel enough? You read the newspapers these days? Tell me about teenage killers and how they plan.”
Rachel was a good kid. But that’s what they said in so many of the stories, shocked neighbors describing a killer as the boy next door and the accompanying yearbook photo giving no hint of evil.
“Not Rachel.” Annie’s voice was harsh.
Garrett simply looked at her, a flash of pity in his cool blue eyes.
Annie drank down the rest of her coffee, but even the best coffee can’t dispel fear. “Posey wants to charge her?”
Garrett massaged his neck. “If we don’t have an open-and-shut case against somebody else, she’ll be arrested Monday. And certified as an adult.”
Annie refilled her coffee mug. She ignored the buffet. Her stomach was a hard, cold knot. She paced back to the windows, peered down toward the burned-out shed. Garrett was gone. She pictured him driving back to the jail. He would settle in his office and read his notes, study the diagrams of the crime scene, riffle through the pictures, perhaps even run the videocam tape.
But she knew as much as Garrett. There was only one pointer to anyone other than Rachel and Pudge. That was Rachel’s report of her mother’s intent to hide papers that she was going to show to Swanson to keep him from taking Marguerite’s money. Happy knew something she thought was important. She’d gone to the library and checked back issues of the Reno Gazette-Journal for vital statistics. That’s as far as they were going to get until they knew what Happy was looking for or had a date. Annie felt a sudden surge of hope. Garrett kept emphasizing that they had only Rachel’s word for the existence of the papers, but they had more than that—they had Happy’s conversation with Wayne before lunch on Thursday and they had her trip to the library.
Annie finished the coffee. Okay, a conversation and the library. Neither was definitive, but both provided support for the existence of the papers and at the very least could provide Judge Halladay with arguments for the defense…Arguments for the defense. Rachel in custody. Rachel in an orange jail jumpsuit. Rachel terrified. Rachel convicted. Annie’s stomach churned.
“What’s wrong?” The voice was matter-of-fact but concerned.
Annie whirled to face Alice Schiller. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was day or night, pajamas or slacks, Alice always appeared calm and self-possessed. Last night, she’d worn a navy wool gown. This morning, she wore a purple turtleneck and gray slacks. She moved with the same grace as Marguerite, but her face was bare of makeup, her auburn hair drawn into a tight bun. As she walked nearer, Annie saw the deeply indented lines splaying from her eyes and mouth and the dark shadows beneath her eyes.
“I saw you talking to the policeman.” Alice’s gaze was direct and demanding.
Annie hesitated, then she remembered the older woman’s concern for Rachel, her efforts to protect her. “They’re going to arrest Rachel Monday.”
Just for an instant, sheer fury moved in Alice’s dark eyes. “No.”
Annie turned her hands palms up. “The only evidence they have implicates Rachel. They don’t believe the papers exist. They think Rachel made that up.” And, though Pudge meant well, his efforts to protect Rachel might well convince a jury of her guilt.
Alice paced to the French door, looked toward the charred rubble. “Swanson’s a clever devil. Damn him.” Her voice was coldly angry.
Annie had a swift memory of Emory Swanson’s uneasy face at the séance in the theater. Was he clever? Oh yes, she’d certainly agree to that. Was he audacious enough to take the enormous risk of setting the shed on fire and entering the main house? If he had murdered Happy, perhaps he’d had no choice.
Annie joined Alice at the window. “Garrett thinks the search of Happy’s room was nothing more than an effort by Rachel to throw suspicion on Swanson.”
Alice’s head jerked toward Annie. “That’s dreadful. Why doesn’t he see what happened? It seems so clear. Swanson set the fire. He must have. Perhaps he had an idea where the papers might be in Happy’s room. If he found them, there was no need for an extensive search. That’s the answer: he found the papers.” She lifted thin, elegant hands, pressed them hard against her cheeks. “What can we do? We have to do something!” As her hands fell, her dark eyes implored Annie.
Annie couldn’t meet her gaze. What was there to do? She had a gut-deep sense that forces far beyond their control had been unleashed with the inevitability of an avalanche or cresting floodwaters. “I don’t know what we can do. If the papers are gone, I’m afraid we’ll never find out what Happy knew. Now”—and her tone was disdainful—“if that had really been Claude last night, he could have announced the name of the murderer. I don’t suppose that’s occurred to Marguerite?”
“Marguerite is a fool.” Alice’s voice was cool, her face remote. “No, I don’t think that’s occurred to her. But I don’t know what’s she’s thinking.” Alice’s face creased in a puzzled frown. “She’s behaving very unlike herself. She’s lying there in bed, staring at the wall, and she won’t answer me when I speak to her. I
don’t know if she’s beginning to have some misgivings about Swanson. I’ve told her and told her he’s a fake. If only I had proof. But”—Alice touched her lips with her fingers, stared out into the garden—“perhaps there might be a way….” Her eyes suddenly lit.
“What?” Annie asked eagerly.
Alice shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.” She turned away and walked swiftly out of the room.
Annie stared after her. Something had occurred to Alice, Annie was sure of that. Well, time would tell.
But they didn’t have much time.
Twenty-six
ANNIE BANGED THROUGH the kitchen door, her face eager.
Max grinned and pushed back from the breakfast room table.
Annie loved the loving light in his eyes, the curve of his mouth. She came into his arms.
“Hey, I missed you last night.” He held her tight against him. “Everything go okay?”
“As well as it could.” She gave him a hug, stepped away. “Rachel’s okay. I left her eating breakfast. She’s going to ride her bike to the beach.” Annie thought the odds were good that Mike would be waiting for her. Mmm. Max had fixed blackberry spice muffins. (The secret, he always insisted, was to use blackberry jam, not preserves.) She put two on a plate and poured a full mug of coffee. When she was seated, she spread whipped sweet cream butter on a muffin and took a bite and a little indistinctly told him of the night before at Dumaney house. “…but the séance fell apart when Claude Ladson spoke.” Max gave an appreciative nod at the likely use of a long-ago tape. “Swanson was uneasy even before the séance started. He couldn’t wait to leave after we heard Claude’s voice. I stayed with Rachel for a while afterward, then I went to my room. I don’t know when I’ve ever been that tired. But I didn’t get much sleep because of the fire and the break-in.”
“Fire!” He looked at her sharply.
She grinned. “Not to worry. Somebody set the toolshed on fire and Happy’s room was searched. Sort of.” She explained.
Max listened, shaking his head when she concluded with Garrett’s warning. “Monday.” He shoved a hand through his tousled hair. “I’d better talk to Judge Halladay.”
Annie pushed away the plate, leaving a half-eaten muffin, the savor gone. She’d tried not to think about the future, but they had to think and plan and hope and struggle. If they didn’t…“Max, I’m scared for Rachel.”
“Hang on.” He tried to sound reassuring. “If it comes to a trial, Judge Halladay can get a lot of mileage out of Happy’s talk with Wayne and her trip to the library. If we can’t find the papers, we’ve got to increase the pressure on Swanson. Now, you’re meeting Laurel at his place at two…”
Max spent a restless hour in his car, fitfully reading, until a sleek black Mercedes turned into Kate Rutledge’s drive. The garage door slid up, the car drove in, the door came down. Max swung out of his car, strode to the front porch, pushed the bell. He wondered if she would answer the door. She couldn’t have missed seeing his red Ferrari parked in front of her house. He glanced through the open blinds into an austere room with two blue sofas and gray walls.
The door swung open. Kate stood in the entrance hall, red-and-gray-striped walls, a gray stone floor. Brown hair curved back in waves from her forehead, emphasizing the strength of her face, wide-spaced eyes, long nose, square chin. She stared at him unsmilingly and said nothing. A heavy gold link necklace glistened against the moss green of her sweater. The green was repeated in the minute check of her wool skirt.
“Did you know,” he asked conversationally, “that a coconspirator in a murder case can also receive the death penalty?”
She drew her breath in sharply. Her hazel eyes flared. “Are you mad?”
“You’ve worked with Swanson for years. I can prove it. If you cooperate with the police now—”
“Mr. Darling, I have no need of cooperating with the police. Not now. Not ever. The fact that I may have known Dr. Swanson before he moved here is none of your business. In fact, Mr. Darling, if you don’t stop harassing me, I will get in touch with the police myself.” The door slammed in his face.
Annie checked her watch. Almost two. She should have called, checked with Laurel. However, Max certainly could be counted on to relay messages accurately. Laurel had specifically asked that Annie be at the gate to the Evermore Foundation at two o’clock.
Annie opened the car door, slipped out. She’d parked deep in the shade of a live oak. She shivered in the dim coolness beneath the glossy-leaved low branches and wished she’d worn a jacket, not just her rust-colored cardigan. Annie walked out to the dusty gray road, acorns crunching underfoot. She paced as she waited, impatient to be accomplishing something to protect Rachel and free Pudge.
A rustle sounded behind her.
Annie whirled, remembering the dogs who’d leapt at the fence. She could see the fence just beyond the tree.
A raccoon swiped up a handful of acorns, then stopped, his dark eyes peering at her. Suddenly he lowered his head, flattened his ears, bared his teeth and growled, the fur rising on his neck and shoulders. Annie’s heart thudded. The raccoon stood between her and the car. But—her breath eased out—those dark eyes stared away from Annie. In the cool gloom, she saw another raccoon, almost a mirror image, head lowered, ears flattened, teeth bared, fur rising and heard the guttural growl. “Oh fellows,” Annie murmured, “she’s probably already made a date with someone else.” The growls, deep and malignant, continued for a moment more, then the first raccoon sidled away, disappearing behind a clump of yaupon holly. By the time Annie looked back, the second suitor had also disappeared.
Laurel’s Morris Minor eased to a stop in front of the gate. The window slid down and pink-tipped fingers gestured energetically.
Annie hurried across the road.
“Hop right in, dear child.” The throaty voice brimmed with good cheer and utter confidence. Laurel looked as jaunty as one of Santa’s elves in a bright red wool suit with a Christmas tree brooch, tiny emeralds and rubies glittering against silver branches.
Annie gritted her teeth, but did as directed. Dear child. How would Laurel like to be called dear aged one? The thought was so appealing, Annie smiled as she slipped into the sumptuous comfort of the soft cream leather seat.
Laurel smiled in return. “I knew I could count on you, Annie.” Laurel tapped her horn. The huge gates began to open.
Annie said hurriedly, “Better roll up the window. Or we’ll have a Doberman riding with us.”
“Oh,” Laurel said carelessly, “Emory always puts the dogs up when there is company. I told him”—Laurel’s tone was waggish—“even the hardiest of spirits might find Brutus and Cassius dispiriting.”
Annie tried not to grin, did and was rewarded by an approving glance from blue eyes which, at the moment, did not look the least bit spacey. But Annie surreptitiously pushed her own button to make sure the window was up.
The dusty gray road looped around a stand of pines. The Chandler house nestled in a clearing surrounded by pines and live oaks. There were no cars parked in the front turnaround. This same view would have greeted long-ago travelers in a wagon, jolted by the long journey from Charleston, the red bricks heavily mortared, the columns of the piazza shining white.
Annie craned to see if a car might be parked on one side. “Do you suppose he’s there?”
“Of course. He’s expecting us.” There was a slight pause. “That is, he’s expecting me. But that will be all right.” Laurel parked near the twin stairways to the front piazza. She reached over and patted Annie’s hand reassuringly.
Annie’s skin prickled. Why should she need reassurance? She stared at Laurel. “Wait a minute, Laurel. What’s going on?”
Laurel beamed. “Annie, it will be so easy.” She reached into the backseat, pulled over a red velvet sack. “Here’s what I want you to do…”
Max dropped the ball on the indoor putting green and picked up his putter. He bent his knees, kept his eyes do
wn, his head still. He made a short, compact swing. The ball curved on the undulating surface, made a slow arc and rolled into the cup.
Max stared. “I’ll be damned.” He walked slowly across the green, bent down and retrieved the ball. He’d not really been thinking about the putt. He was still puzzling over his dismissal by Kate Rutledge. She had threatened to go to the police. That was not the response of a guilty woman.
Max rose and walked to his desk, bouncing the ball in his hand. He flung himself into his red leather chair, leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Okay, Kate Rutledge wasn’t scared. Either she had nothing to be scared about or she didn’t know she should be scared. Or, to look at it another way, if Swanson had killed Happy to keep a marriage quiet (or for any other reason), Kate Rutledge didn’t know about it.
Max pushed the button, and the chair came upright. He flipped the ball over the desk and heard it thunk on the green. He pulled out a legal pad, grabbed a pen and stared at the paper. Maybe it was time to look hard at what they knew. He scrawled:
1. Happy Laurance was murdered around midnight Thursday.
2. Present in the house at that time:
Marguerite Dumaney, Happy’s sister
Rachel Van Meer, Happy’s daughter
Pudge Laurance, Happy’s former husband
Wayne Ladson, Terry Ladson, and Donna Ladson Farrell, children of Claude Ladson
Joan Ladson, ex-wife of Wayne
3. Familiar with the house and easily able to gain access:
Mike Hernandez, part-time gardener and Rachel’s boyfriend
Dr. Emory Swanson, Marguerite’s psychic adviser
Sookie, the cook
4. Happy had been upset since Marguerite announced she planned to give the bulk of her fortune to Dr. Emory Swanson’s Evermore Foundation.
5. According to Rachel, Happy said she had papers which would prevent Swanson from getting the money and that she intended to put the papers in a safe place. She further stated, according to Rachel, that she would show the papers to Swanson.