Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “Before the ‘shot’?” His tone put quote marks around the word. “Or after?”

  She didn’t have to think about it. That loud pop, her rush to the window. “After.”

  A dark figure moved on the deck of the cruiser, came over the side, dropped to the dock.

  “If there was a shot, you’d think Terry would have heard it.” Hands on his hips, he watched his brother stride up the dock.

  Annie felt her face flush. Wayne didn’t have to be sarcastic. She turned, hurried down the veranda steps and walked swiftly on the curving oyster-shell path. After a moment, she heard a crunch behind her. She was no longer concerned about safety. No intruder would lurk in this lit enclave. In fact, she realized this was probably going to be a pointless exercise, but she wanted to look down near the dock. It seemed to her that the sound of the frightened birds had been deep in the garden. Was there a gate to an adjoining property? Perhaps Terry had heard something. It wouldn’t hurt to ask. She walked fast, pausing only to decide which way to veer when she reached the maze. The maze, in fact, formed an impassable barrier between the upper and lower terraces. Paths curved to each side, the south arm leading to the gazebo, the north to the arbor.

  A muffled shout sounded past the maze. “Hey,” Terry’s voice rose in a shout, “Wayne, hurry! Christ, come here!”

  Wayne lunged past Annie, his shoes crunching the shells. Annie ran after him, but he was already beside his brother at the foot of the gazebo steps when she came around the maze.

  Terry grabbed his brother’s arm. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Terry’s voice shook. In the stark light beneath the live oak, his face was gray beneath the sunburn. He wore an undershirt and faded dungarees.

  Annie heard their voices, but they seemed far away. She stared at the crumpled figure lying at the foot of the gazebo steps. Yes, Marguerite Dumaney was dead. The bullet had apparently struck her midchest, knocking her onto her back. She lay with her arms flung wide. The front of her green silk robe was terrible with the bright stain of blood. The crimson of her lips made a vivid splotch against the stark white of her face. In death there was no hint of the power she had exuded in life. Despite the deep sockets of her eyes and the jut of her cheekbones, her features lacked sharpness and her face was no longer beautiful. The once-lovely red hair made a ghastly frame for the dead face.

  Wayne took a deep breath and turned toward the house.

  “Yo?” came a call.

  “Billy,” Annie shouted. “Oh, Billy, we’re down here. At the gazebo. Hurry.”

  Billy was big, but he could move. He careened around the maze, stumbled to a stop. “Don’t move. Anyone.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Wayne hunched his shoulders. “For God’s sake, we just found her.”

  “I have to secure the crime scene.” Billy pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Have any of you touched anything?”

  “Billy, it’s all right.” Annie pointed at Wayne. “He and I came out to see if we could find anything. Wayne turned on the lights—”

  “—and I saw them.” Terry swallowed. “Wish to hell I’d turned over and gone back to sleep. But hell, it looked like Broadway, it was so bright. And that was strange as hell. And those damned birds had waked me up.”

  Wayne glanced toward Annie.

  Billy clicked on his phone, punched the number.

  Annie took a step toward Terry. “Did you hear the shot?”

  Terry’s head swung toward the gazebo. “No. I didn’t hear that.”

  But the shot startled the birds and their cries awakened Terry.

  “I have the scene under control, sir…. Yes, sir.” Billy clicked off the cell phone. “The chief requests that you remain here until he and the crime unit arrive. Please refrain from talking.”

  Wayne smoothed his beard, almost spoke, shrugged. He wandered toward the maze, plopped onto a wooden bench. Terry hesitated, then joined his brother. The brothers avoided looking toward Marguerite’s body. Annie stared speculatively at the gazebo. It was shocking to find Marguerite Dumaney dead, but astounding to find her dead by the gazebo. Annie didn’t profess to be an expert on Marguerite Dumaney’s habits, but the only time she’d ever seen the woman outdoors was when Marguerite arrived—dramatically—to publicly accuse Pudge of murder. Once they knew why Marguerite was at the gazebo, they’d be well on the track of discovering who killed her. But the reason seemed obvious. She must have come there to meet someone. That surely wouldn’t include anyone in the house. Why come outside when there were many private nooks in which she could easily speak privately to anyone in the house? So not someone in the house. With a surge of relief, Annie realized that included Rachel. Moreover, after Annie had heard the shot, she’d knocked on Rachel’s door and roused her. Rachel could not be accused of this murder. Since Marguerite’s death must hinge directly upon Happy’s murder, Rachel was exonerated. And Pudge was in jail, so he was exonerated, too.

  Although it wasn’t long—perhaps fifteen minutes—it seemed forever before car doors slammed and Chief Garrett and Lou Pirelli, both dressed but unshaven, strode around the maze. Garrett ignored them all, walking straight to the steps of the gazebo. More doors slammed; the whirl of a police light flickered from the drive.

  Perhaps it was the noise, perhaps the continuing blaze of lights in the garden at this too-late hour. The terrace room door was flung wide and a figure strode to the railing of the veranda.

  “What is this?” The piercing voice cut through the night, the sharp yet husky, unforgettable voice.

  Every face swung toward the starkly lit veranda.

  She stood, dark red hair streaming to the shoulders of her scarlet kimono, haggard face imperious. “Who’s there? What’s going on? Answer me.” There was no mistaking the deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and scarlet lips, the features cold and haughty and demanding. Oyster shells rattled. Marguerite came down the path so quickly, the swish of her silk kimono sounded like the flutter of shuffled cards, shockingly loud in the silence that awaited her. She lifted an arm, pointed at Garrett. “My good man, I demand—” Then she saw that still figure. For an instant, she was frozen in motion. Slowly, her eyes widened, her cheeks went flaccid, her arm fell. “What…” She took a deep, sobbing breath and walked forward, one leaden step after another, her shaking hand outstretched.

  Garrett stepped in front of her. “Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to stop here. No one can—”

  Marguerite’s head jerked up. Eyes glazed, mouth trembling, she swayed on her feet. Garrett turned toward Wayne. “She needs—”

  Marguerite flung herself past Garrett before he could reach out. She flew to the gazebo, fell to her knees beside that still body. She pulled up a limp hand, clutched it to her face and began to moan, “Alice, Alice, Alice…”

  Garrett was there in two big strides, pulling a sobbing Marguerite to her feet. He gripped her arms, snapping at Wayne. “Come here. Take her in the house.”

  Marguerite resisted, her eyes wild, her body trembling. “Look at Alice! She’s wearing one of my gowns. She has on makeup. She never wore makeup. Never.” Marguerite shuddered. “I see myself lying there. Someone tried to kill me! Oh my God.”

  Garrett gave Marguerite a hard stare. “Why should”—he paused, dredging for the name—“Miss Schiller dress like you? Why should she come out here in the middle of the night?”

  Marguerite pressed her hands against her cheeks. Her eyes widened. But she made no answer.

  Annie stepped forward. “Ask Marguerite what Alice told her.”

  Marguerite’s eyes blazed. “She’s wrong, she’s…” A deep breath. “Oh God, Alice was wrong. Not Emory. I can’t bear it if it’s Emory.”

  Annie felt sympathy war with disgust as she stared at the elegant, still haggardly beautiful woman, beautiful despite the ravage of tears. Perhaps her beauty was indestructible because every thought was directed within. Everyone and everything served as an extension of herself. Marguerite obviously had not realized that if murder did not co
me from without, it must have come from within the Dumaney house. Would she rather see Emory Swanson as the murderer of Happy and the woman he believed to be Marguerite or would she rather look for the eyes of a killer in the faces of her family?

  Marguerite’s face suddenly crumpled. Her eyes shut tight. She cried like a child, tears flooding, breath catching. “Happy…Alice…I need them. Oh God, I need them.” She sagged against Wayne.

  Marguerite’s anguish seared through Annie. Everyone who mattered the most to Marguerite was now dead: her sister, Alice, her husband. Was it any wonder that she clung to her faith in Emory Swanson? If she lost that faith, she would lose everything.

  Wayne jerked his head at Terry. “Come on. Let’s get her inside.”

  The two men, supporting Marguerite between them, moved slowly up the oyster-shell path. The only sound was the crunch of footsteps and the harsh gasp of Marguerite’s sobs.

  Twenty-eight

  AN UNEASY QUIET lay over the Dumaney house. Joan and Donna were upstairs with Marguerite. Wayne and Terry stood at the french door of the terrace room, staring grimly out into the floodlit garden. Annie held her cell phone, but decided against calling Max. Let him rest. There was nothing he could do to help right now. Dr. Burford came and went, taking time to see Marguerite. Rachel snuggled beneath an afghan on a sofa near the indoor garden and fell asleep.

  “What the hell did Alice think she was doing?” Wayne spoke softly as they watched the crime unit continue its slow and painstaking exploration.

  “She told me she had a plan.” Annie rubbed eyes grainy with fatigue. “But I don’t understand why she tried to trap Swanson by herself.”

  Wayne moved his shoulders, trying to loosen tight muscles. “What kind of plan?”

  Terry held up a pot of freshly brewed coffee. “Anybody join me?”

  Annie hurried to the bar, took a mug for herself, carried one to Wayne. She smelled the steaming, strong coffee, waited for it to cool a bit. “We can figure out part of it.” Although Annie still had trouble believing that Alice—careful, calm, intelligent Alice—had faced Swanson by herself, her death made that conclusion inevitable. “We know that she was pretending to be Marguerite. That’s obvious from the kimono and the makeup. There could only be one reason. Swanson wouldn’t come if Alice called him, but he would come for Marguerite. Alice must have called Swanson, pretended to be Marguerite and asked him—told him—to meet her in the gazebo. We don’t know what she said. Did she accuse him of murdering Happy? Or did she profess to be puzzled and uneasy because her sister had told her about some papers concerning him? Whatever she said, Swanson came, and, believing Alice to be Marguerite, he shot her.”

  Terry dumped three teaspoons of sugar in his coffee. “Wasn’t that killing the golden goose?”

  Wayne gave a short laugh. “If he’d killed Happy and thought Marguerite knew it and could tell the cops, he’d sure as hell chop the little goose’s neck. First things first. Rita’s money wouldn’t help him if he was convicted of murder.”

  Terry stirred his coffee. “Alice was nobody’s fool. If she thought the man killed Happy, why did she try to handle him by herself?”

  There was no answer to that. The body lying near the gazebo was proof of a plan gone awry.

  The door to the terrace room opened. Chief Garrett stepped inside.

  Annie took a deep gulp of coffee.

  He started with her, of course. “You called 911 at”—he checked his notes—“one-oh-six, reported hearing a gunshot. What time did you hear the shot?”

  Annie figured out loud. “I heard the shot, then the birds cried. I got up and went to the window—I think I saw someone—”

  “Who, for God’s sake?’ Wayne demanded. “You didn’t say anything about seeing anybody.”

  Annie held up her hand. “It was dark. I looked down in the garden and I thought there was movement.”

  “Where?” Garrett snapped.

  Annie pointed to her left. “That way. Away from the gazebo.”

  Wayne swung back to the window, peered out. “There’s a path there. It leads to a dirt lane that runs between this house and the next one.”

  Garrett made quick notes. “Okay. You saw somebody. You think. But I still want to know when you heard the shot.”

  “Maybe three minutes before I called, maybe four.” She nodded. “So it must have been just about one o’clock.”

  “What took so long?” Garrett’s eyes were suspicious.

  She remembered how grateful she’d been for the soft yellow lights in the wall sconces. “I went across the hall and knocked on Rachel’s door.”

  Wayne frowned.

  She said quickly, “I didn’t mention it when I came for you. I didn’t think it mattered. But I thought it was a shot and I wanted to be sure Rachel was all right.”

  Rachel shivered. “You didn’t tell me about a shot. I would have come with you.” Her eyes were huge. “I’m glad I didn’t. Poor Alice.”

  Garrett glanced toward the garden, still starkly lit. “You and Mr. Ladson got down there when? Five minutes later?”

  Annie shook her head. “More like ten. After I made the call, I went and woke up Wayne. He dressed. We came downstairs. It was probably—”

  Terry interrupted. “It was twelve after one when the garden lights came on. I came out to see what was going on.”

  Garrett looked at Annie and Wayne. “You didn’t see anyone when the lights came on?”

  Wayne stared out into the garden. “No. There was nobody in the garden. No one at all.”

  “There was plenty of time for the murderer to get away.” Annie locked eyes with Garrett. “My father’s in jail.” She didn’t go on to say he couldn’t have been shooting Marguerite in the garden. She didn’t need to say it. “When are you going to let him out?”

  Garrett wasn’t going to be stampeded. “The investigation isn’t complete.” But he had to know that Alice died because she confronted Happy’s murderer. “As soon as—”

  The terrace door was flung open. Lou Pirelli, out of breath and excited, yelled, “Chief, we found the gun!”

  Annie snapped shut her overnight bag. She glanced around the room. She’d not forgotten anything. How wonderful to know that in only a few minutes she would be home. And not alone.

  The door opened and Rachel stepped inside, a stuffed backpack dangling from one thin shoulder. Her eyes uncertain, she said diffidently, “Annie, are you sure it will be okay with Max?”

  “I talked to him a little while ago.” Annie’s ear still tingled. Max was not happy that she’d found a body and not called him. But, as she’d pointed out, what good would it have done for neither of them to get any sleep? Her ear tingled, but her heart glowed. His tone was sharp because he pictured her walking out into a garden when death waited, and he hated that. He’d been forced to admit that she’d not been foolish, first calling the police and seeking out Wayne. And he’d agreed at once that she should bring Rachel with her. “He said to tell you Dorothy L. is thrilled. She thinks we’re pretty boring. He’ll have hot chocolate ready for us.”

  Tears glistened in Rachel’s dark eyes. “I went down the hall. I thought maybe I had to tell Aunt Rita, but she’s still asleep. Joan said she was sure it was all right.”

  Nobody cared where Rachel went. Both of them knew it.

  Annie grabbed her suitcase. “Let’s go.”

  “It’s tilting to the left. No,” Annie urged, “a little more this way.”

  On his hands and knees, Max steadied the trunk of the pine in the metal base, screwed a support prong tighter. “How’s that?”

  Dorothy L. crouched and arched through the air to land on his back.

  “Ouch.” Max bent forward, but the cat merely dug her claws deeper.

  “Annie, do something!” Max reached back.

  Delighted, Dorothy L. used one paw to swipe at his groping hand.

  Rachel teetered forward on her toes and laughed. “Annie, she thinks Max is a bridge. I’ll bet she climbs
to the top of the tree. Look!” She giggled.

  Annie laughed, too. She hoped trimming the Christmas tree might be the first glimmer of happiness in Rachel’s dark and difficult days. Tomorrow would be very hard. Happy’s funeral was set at ten. But for now…Annie hurried to Max and loosened Dorothy L.’s claws, scooping up the fluffy white cat.

  Max dramatically rolled onto his back, hands and feet in the air, growling, “Does Dorothy L. want to spend Christmas at the store? Agatha will turn her into a rag doll cat.”

  Rachel’s eyes were round. “Doesn’t Agatha like Dorothy L.?”

  Max sat up and waved a hand toward Rachel. “Come close and you shall hear the piteous tale of—”

  The phone rang.

  Annie was laughing as she hurried to the kitchen. Max loved to tell the story of Dorothy L.’s arrival at Death on Demand, a helpless foundling in need of a home, and her reception by pampered, mistress-of-the-manor Agatha. Agatha’s heartbreak had reminded Annie that even a cat can be jealous. The story had ended happily, with Agatha living at the store and Dorothy L. at home.

  “…Agatha wouldn’t eat. She bit Annie. She hissed. She…”

  “Hello.” As Annie picked up the phone, she checked caller ID. The Island Gazette. For a moment, her chest tightened. On Sunday afternoon? Oh, of course. Vince was at the office, covering the murder of Alice Schiller, which would surely dominate page one tomorrow. But she gripped the receiver tightly.

  “Annie.” This time Vince’s voice was robust. He wasn’t calling to tell her the police had an APB out for her father. “Hey, I’ve got news.”

  Annie started breathing again.

  “Things are breaking fast on the Schiller murder. Here’s what we know: Death was instantaneous, single gunshot wound to the chest, burst the aorta, .22-caliber pistol, clear fingerprints on the grip belonging to…” A dramatic pause.

  “Come on, Vince.” She was stern.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. But you’re not going to believe it. The fingerprints belong to Dr. Emory Swanson, the island’s chief spirit seeker. Everybody’s stunned because gossip had it that Marguerite Dumaney was eating out of his hand. Talk about a shock.”