by Carolyn Hart
6. Happy asked Wayne how to access newspaper files.
7. Happy went to the library the afternoon she died and printed out some material, possibly from the Reno Gazette-Journal.
Max tapped his pen on the desk. Dammit, everything came back to Swanson. No one else appeared to have a reason to want Happy Laurance dead. Sweet, indecisive, worried, loving Happy. If she had been at odds with anyone else, someone would have spoken of it. Happy’s only disagreement in her last days had been with Swanson. And, of course, with Rachel and Mike and Pudge.
Max looked at the clock. Two o’clock. They had less than forty-eight hours to save Rachel.
Laurel bustled inside as the door opened. Annie followed, wishing she were on a pirate ship on the Yangtze or a stagecoach rattling into Dodge City, anyplace where she might feel more comfortable than standing on the lovely heart-pine floor of the entrance hall to the Chandler house, her hands sweaty at the thought of Laurel’s plan.
Emory Swanson’s welcoming smile slid away when he spotted Annie. Hostility glittered in his heavy-lidded dark eyes. He suddenly didn’t look quite so handsome, his blunt features tight and strained. Although his salt-and-pepper tweed jacket, bright red tie and gray wool slacks were perfect for a country gentleman greeting guests, there was no amiability in the elegant Georgian hall and Scrooge would have felt right at home despite the Scotch pine with its red and green tartan bows.
Laurel beamed at their unresponsive host. “Emory, you are so sweet to have me this afternoon. And you promised a Chandler house tea, a gastronomic delight to be treasured forever. Which”—her voice was suddenly soft—“surely reminds us all that earthly joys must be appreciated at the moment because”—a light laugh—“even though we may transcend the here and now and reach into the Great Beyond, we know there won’t be any coconut cream pie there.” Her regret was evident. “Carpe diem.” Laurel slipped an arm through Swanson’s and gently nudged him toward the drawing room.
His choice was to be churlish or to yield.
He yielded. Annie, clutching a bulging red velvet sack, followed them into the elegant drawing room with rose silk hangings at the enormous windows, an Aubusson rug with a rose and green pattern, and rose-and-white-satin Louis XV chairs and divan. Tea was set on the low rosewood table in front of the divan.
Laurel sank gracefully onto the divan. “Emory, do please sit beside me.” She waved a hand toward a Hepplewhite chair. “And dear Annie. Oh Emory, I knew you would be so pleased that my sweet daughter-in-law was able to come with me. Without her, my visit could not succeed!”
Annie sat stiffly on the edge of the chair.
As Swanson’s head swiveled toward Annie, his expression indicating the kind of delight he might take in the arrival of a black mamba, out of his view Laurel made a circle with her index finger, then a U within the imaginary circle.
Annie forced a smile.
Laurel gave a tiny head shake, but her face was glowing when Swanson looked toward her. “I am simply having a glorious Christmas season and feeling quite elfin. Annie is my cheerful assistant, helping me deliver Christmas presents and in a minute”—Laurel clapped her hands in anticipation—“while you and I enjoy our repast and I know that you and I are here and you cannot therefore be there—”
Swanson looked bewildered.
Annie didn’t blame him. She might not be bewildered, but she was damn bothered. If only she had Laurel’s élan, her ability to dare an outrageous performance while looking bewitchingly lovely, golden hair perfectly coiffed, ocean-blue eyes sparkling, patrician features regally confident. Instead, Annie’s stomach ached, her hands sweated and her face felt as stiff as the meringue on one of the lemon tea tarts on the silver tray. She was sitting only a few feet from a man who may have killed Rachel’s mother. Annie stared at his bold forehead, jutting nose and blunt chin, at the lines indented by his thin mouth, a cruel mouth, a merciless mouth. If he killed Happy and if he decided Annie and Laurel were a threat…
“—then dear Annie shall take the utmost pleasure in secreting”—Laurel’s smile was beatific—“oh, you may think this is a most childlike enthusiasm on my part, but I know you will indulge me, dear Emory. I feel so confident of your kindness toward me since you have made it possible for Buddy—” She gave a little gasp and pressed fingers lightly against her shell-pink lips. “Now I mustn’t say more, that is our secret. But I am compelled to demonstrate my gratitude and I could think of no better way.” She inclined her head toward Annie. “Do take wing, my dear, trip on elfin feet….”
Annie struggled to her feet, clutching the red velvet bag. “Fresh from Santa’s workshop.” She wished her voice sounded less like a croak.
Swanson started to rise.
Laurel’s hand shot out, gripped his arm. “No, dear Emory, Annie won’t join us. She”—and her wink was roguish—“is my very own Christmas elf. Here, let me pour you a cup of tea. No, you first.” With incredible speed, Laurel poured the steaming tea and thrust the cup and saucer at him. “No better way of showing my heartfelt gratitude than to afford you a Christmas surprise. Dear Annie will hide a small memento, and who knows when you shall find it. I hope this will be a thrill. Ah, the days of youth and the incredible expectancy….”
Annie hurried across the wooden floor of the entry hall and into the library. She darted the length of the room to the oversize Louis XV oak desk. Several folders were stacked on one corner, an in box, a speaker phone, a tall crystal vase with fresh daffodils. But she didn’t see…
Was that a footstep? Oh God, had Swanson pulled away from Laurel? Surely Laurel would hold him somehow. Sit on his lap, nibble on his ear…Annie plumped the red velvet bag on the corner of the desk and pulled out the top box with its gay red-and-white-striped paper and red bow sparkling with gold flecks. She burrowed beneath other boxes, grabbed the hard plastic of a picture frame, tugged it to the top, all the while searching. Not on the desk. He must have moved it. Relief swept her when she spotted the ornate plastic frame holding Laurel’s photograph on a wooden console behind the desk. Swiftly Annie moved around the desk, picked up that frame, replaced it with the identical frame and picture from the velvet bag. She stuffed the retrieved frame to the bottom of the velvet bag. Holding the candy-striped box, she moved quickly away from the desk, seeking a hiding place. She tucked it beneath the fronds of a Whitmani fern in a green pottery jardiniere next to a long Empire sofa.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Annie composed herself, hoping she looked like a successful Christmas elf. She was halfway across the room when Swanson and Laurel appeared. Annie tried to swing the gift bag casually even though she was so aware of the purloined frame it might as well have emitted beeps.
Laurel clapped her hands. “Annie, you won’t believe this!”
Annie thought she would.
“Dear Emory is simply as determined as a six-year-old boy.” Admiration overcame a hint of petulance. “He insists he gets to open his present now. This minute! But I insist”—her tone was arch—“that he must find it. Now, you can tell him whether he’s warm or cold.” With a trill of cheery laughter, Laurel settled on the edge of the desk, crossed her legs, showing a length of silk hose.
Swanson paced down the room, his eyes sweeping every surface. He went first to his desk, yanked open drawers.
“Cold.” Annie’s tone was far from arch. Dear God, if they could just get out of here. What if Swanson grabbed the velvet bag? She resisted the impulse to clasp it to her chest.
Swanson paced behind his desk, slid open the doors to the console.
Annie edged toward the front hallway. “Cold.”
Some of the tension eased out of Swanson’s face. He looked around the room, took a step toward the windows and the Empire sofa.
“Warmer.” Annie backed closer to the hall.
Another step.
“Warmer, warmer…oh”—he was nearing the sofa—“you’re getting hot.” She willed: Look in the damn fern, buddy, look now.
Swanson glanced at the sofa and at the fern. He took two steps, pulled apart the fronds, lifted up the box. “Well…” He turned, managed a tight smile. “Very nice of you, Laurel.”
Laurel leaned forward in anticipation.
Swanson jerked at the box, ripped off the paper and lifted the lid. He stared into the box.
Laurel slipped from the desk and hurried to him. She lifted out the big gray shell with rugged peaks. “I thought this was simply perfect for you, Emory. A knobbed whelk. Of course, it is empty.” She sighed. “Poor dear snail. But”—a bright smile—“he leaves behind such a lovely reminder. And now I know you will often think of me.” She whirled and carried the whelk to the console and placed it lovingly next to her photograph. She picked up the frame. “So dear of you, Emory—”
Annie could have strangled her. Without a qualm. Why did she have to focus his attention on that damn frame?
“—to keep my picture so near.” Laurel placed it by the whelk, turned and sped toward Annie. “Ah, but now we must be off. There are many presents yet to deliver.”
All the way to the front door, Annie found it hard to breathe. Laurel chattered. It seemed to Annie that Laurel’s farewell to Swanson was interminable. Finally they walked down the steps and to the car. Annie slipped into the passenger seat and shut the door, locking it.
As the car started and Laurel gave one final farewell wave toward the unsmiling Swanson, Annie almost spoke, then subsided. She didn’t say a word when Laurel idled her car next to Annie’s. She got out, swung the door, but at the last minute poked her head inside. “Laurel, why a whelk?”
Laurel’s deep blue eyes, dark as ink, were thoughtful. “The perfect gift is often so hard to find.” Her voice was cool. “An empty shell…”
Max pulled four chicken breasts from the refrigerator. “Wish I could have seen you skulking around the man’s library.” He grinned.
“Oh yeah, laugh. How funny would it have been if Swanson had found the twin to Laurel’s picture? I would damn sure have been holding the bag, right?” Annie glared.
Max reached over, ruffled her hair. “Aw, come on, Annie. You have to hand it to Ma. She’s in a class by herself.”
Annie thought that wasn’t quite accurate. She was in a class with Raffles, Miss Melville, Bulldog Drummond and Pam North. Especially Pam North.
Max picked up the broiler pan. “After all, she’s got the goods.”
“We hope.” Laurel was even now listening to tapes of Swanson’s phone conversations which had occurred since Laurel presented him with the framed picture Wednesday evening.
Annie leaned against the kitchen counter, hands deep in her skirt pockets. “Max, what if there’s nothing incriminating on those tapes?”
“We keep digging.” He studied the spice cabinet.
“Not too much rosemary,” Annie warned. “Max, what should we say tonight?”
He looked at her soberly. “Nothing.”
“Rachel has no idea—”
“That’s good. There’s no point in scaring her. We’re doing everything we can, Annie. I spent the afternoon digging up information about the Ladson family. And on Happy. I even ran a check on the cook. Ma’s listening to Swanson’s tape. So tonight we’ll have a good dinner and we’ll talk about Christmas. Why don’t you get out the stuff to make divinity?”
So they were going to have a happy Christmas evening. Annie loved making divinity for her friends. Tonight Rachel and Mike could help. It would be fun. King’s X on murder. A fine plan—if she didn’t picture Pudge sitting in a narrow cell or think about Monday.
Twenty-seven
ANNIE SHIVERED, WATCHED the patterns of moonlight and cloud against the dark screen. She’d pushed the guest-room windows up, welcoming the familiar scent of the marsh, but sleep didn’t come. This second night at the Dumaney house was no more comfortable than the first. Though surely there would not be a fire tonight. Don’t borrow trouble, her mother always warned, but trouble was as close as a shadow and could not be forgotten. Was Rachel sleeping? After all, this was her home. But no one at the Dumaney house had seemed to notice or care that Rachel was out until almost nine. Of course, Annie had called and left a message for Alice that they were having dinner and would be in later. Still, when they came up the stairs, no one popped out to greet them. Rachel’s aunt was either unthinking or uncaring. Whichever, this was not the place for Rachel to stay. Perhaps, when Annie returned home, she could invite Rachel to come and stay. If Rachel was still free….
Annie folded her arms behind her head. Max wouldn’t mind. In fact, tonight he’d enjoyed the kids. Maybe all of them had worked at it, but the evening had been fun. They’d popped popcorn and made popcorn balls as well as the divinity. Mike had eaten five popcorn balls.
She wished Chief Garrett had been at their house tonight. If he’d seen Rachel and Mike…Annie moved restlessly. If Garrett ever learned that Rachel and Mike had been in the garden the night Happy was murdered—
The single popping sound was sharp and distinct.
Annie pushed up on her elbow, listening. Fireworks? Car exhaust? Gunshot? Her ears sorted sounds of night, the qwawk of night herons, the throaty murmur of mourning doves, the rattle of magnolia leaves, the sough of tall pines. Then came an unmistakable killdee, killdee, the shrill scream of the killdeer when alarmed.
Annie flung back the covers and raced to the window. She peered out into the garden. The piercing scream of the birds continued. Was that a shadow darting across the back of the garden? Annie blinked and it was gone. In a moment, the cry of the killdeer subsided.
That popping sound…Annie grabbed her robe, slipped into her house shoes. It took only a moment to plunge across the dimly lit hall—Annie was grateful for the yellow gleam from wall sconces—and tap on Rachel’s door. “Rachel, it’s me, Annie.”
The door opened and a sleepy Rachel, eyes blinking, looked at her uncertainly. “What’s wrong, Annie?”
“I don’t know.” But, in her heart, she did. She knew the crack of a gun. She might be wrong. She hoped she was wrong. But something scared the killdeers and Annie intended to find out what was responsible. Or who. “It’s okay. Go back to sleep. I thought I heard a noise.”
Rachel yawned, nodded and started to close the door.
“Lock it,” Annie ordered.
She didn’t move away until she heard the click of the lock. Just for an instant, she hesitated; then, with a decisive nod, she turned back to her room. Inside, she closed the door and turned on the light. She checked the clock—five minutes after one o’clock in the morning—and reached for her cell phone.
“What the hell…?” Wayne Ladson peered at her groggily, his hair tousled, his beard matted. He held a comforter to his bare chest.
“I’m sorry to bother you.” Annie felt the beginnings of embarrassment. But, dammit, she was sure that had been a gunshot. Almost sure. “I don’t want to disturb Miss Dumaney, but I need for someone in the family to come downstairs with me and wait for the police.”
“Police? My God, what’s happened?” His voice was sharp.
“I heard a gunshot. In the garden.”
His eyes were suspicious. “What were you doing in the garden this time of night?” His eyes noted her orange cardigan and khaki slacks.
“I wasn’t in the garden. I was in my room, and I heard a shot. I called the police and got dressed.” She didn’t mention her quick check of Rachel’s room.
He rubbed his beard. “Wait a minute.” The door slammed.
Annie buttoned her cardigan. It was going to be chilly outside.
The door swung open. Wayne had pulled on a navy sweatshirt and sweatpants and running shoes. He hadn’t taken time to comb his hair or smooth his beard. “Okay. What’s going on?” He moved toward the stairs, moved fast.
Annie hurried to keep up. “…and I’m sure it was a shot.”
“One shot?” He thudded down the stairs.
Annie was right behind him. “Yes.”
A
t the foot of the steps, he turned toward the reception room.
Annie stopped. “I said we’d wait at the front door.”
“Please yourself.” He sounded irritated. “I’m going to turn on the garden lights. You can send the cops back there.”
Annie called after him, “But if someone has a gun—”
He looked over his shoulder. “You heard one shot. If it was a shot. Which I think is damned unlikely. I’m going to check out the garden. If the cop comes while I’m out there, fine. If not, I’m getting the hell back to bed and you can explain it to him.”
Annie hesitated, then followed. She’d talked to Billy Cameron and he would likely come to the garden when he saw the lights. If there had been a gunshot, there was no reason to think the person with the gun was still in the garden. Annie began to feel more and more uncomfortable. Maybe she should simply have come downstairs and looked before calling the police and rousing Wayne. The house was silent with the deep quiet of late night—no light, no movement, no sound. There was no hint that any member of the household had been outside. So what difference did that sharp pop make?
Wayne flipped up a bank of switches when they reached the terrace room. He unbolted the door and stepped out onto the brightly lit veranda. The entire garden was thrown into sharp relief by bright spotlights high in the live oaks. A single light near the dock marked the bow of Terry’s boat.
Wayne walked to the railing of the veranda, surveyed the garden.
Annie joined him. The only movement was the gentle sway of the pines in the offshore breeze as the cool air from the land rushed seaward to replace the warmer air rising off the water.
“Nobody’s out there.” Wayne glared at her.
On Terry’s boat, light glowed suddenly in the cabin. Had the lights in the garden awakened him?
“Something startled the killdeers.” Annie tried not to sound defensive.