by Carolyn Hart
“From some old tapes,” Annie explained.
Interest flickered in his eyes, then faded. “Whatever. I knew somebody was really gunning for me. She called Saturday afternoon. She was talking really soft and hurried and she told me she was terrified, that someone was trying to kill her and she needed a gun. She wanted me to bring a gun to her Saturday night.”
“How did she know you had a gun?” Max had pulled a small notebook from his pocket.
“I don’t think she did.” He lifted his shoulders in disgust. “She was always unreasonable. I suppose she thought I’d go out and buy one. As it happens, I had a gun. At this point I was just trying to settle her down. She was hysterical. Anyway”—he heaved a tired sigh—“I agreed to bring the gun at twelve-forty-five and meet her in the gazebo.”
“Why was the gun loaded?” Max demanded.
Swanson hunched over the table. “Jesus, I thought about it. I almost unloaded it. But she knew how to shoot a gun. Some of those damn movies she made. I was afraid she’d check and then she’d be furious. God, I wish I’d taken those bullets out.”
Annie and Max simply looked at him.
He jerked his head. “Look, I know it sounds crazy. And I guess I was crazy. But, God, it was so much money….”
So much money. Enough to kill twice? What price an alibi from Kate Rutledge?
“No.” The word came from deep in his throat with an explosive force. “No, dammit. I did not shoot her.” He leaned forward, glaring at them. “She said to come to the gazebo at twelve-forty-five. I did and she wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t. She was never on time in her life.”
Annie felt a chill. No, but she—actually Alice Schiller—had been on time for her death.
“I paced around in front of the gazebo. I guess I’d been there about five minutes or so, and here she came, running down the path. She stopped, looked back, then rushed up to me. She said, ‘Emory, thank God you’ve come. I was right. I’m in danger. Do you have the gun?’ She held out a soft bag. I pulled the gun out of my pocket and dropped it in the bag. She said, ‘I’m going to have to—’ Then she stopped and looked out into the garden. ‘Was that a noise? I’d better see. Wait for me. I’ll be right back,’ and she dashed off before I could say a word. I almost left, but I thought what the hell, I’d gone to this much trouble. In a couple of minutes, I saw a flashlight bobbing. She was almost to me. Only a few feet away. She called out, ‘Emory—’A shot rang out. I threw myself on the ground. I heard some noise in the shrubbery and then it was absolutely quiet. I got up and looked toward the flashlight and I could just see a dark shape there. I ran over and dropped down beside her. I picked up her wrist. There wasn’t any pulse. I grabbed the flashlight and looked for the bag she’d carried, but there was no bag—no bag and no gun. I used the flashlight to check out the ground around her, but I knew I had to get out of there.”
“There wasn’t any flashlight there when we found her,” Annie said.
“I took it with me. I ran like hell to get to my car.” He rubbed his cheek and metal jangled. “I threw the damn thing in the lagoon when I got home. What difference does it make?”
Swanson was right. Producing the flashlight did nothing to prove or disprove his story.
Annie’s eyes were sharp. “They arrested you at the airport in Savannah.”
Swanson slumped in his chair. “I knew they’d be after me. I’ve got some money—” He broke off. Yes, no doubt he did have money available in another country, perhaps under another name.
They sat in silence. What an absurd story. No wonder Garrett didn’t believe Swanson. Annie studied the big man slumped in the chair, deflated and defeated.
Max looked down at his notebook, pushed it close enough for Annie to read:
SWANSON CLAIMS
1. Alice, pretending to be Marguerite, calls, demands gun, sets up meeting at the gazebo.
2. Swanson arrives at the gazebo at twelve-forty-five, bringing gun.
3. Alice (pretending to be Marguerite) arrives at twelve-fifty-five.
4. Swanson drops gun in her bag.
5. She asks him to wait, runs into garden.
6. She returns with a flashlight, calls Swanson’s name.
7. Unknown shoots Alice, believing the victim to be Marguerite.
Annie could imagine the circuit solicitor’s attitude if Chief Garrett presented this summary to him. Hogwash was a sanitized version of the likely response. Because it was much more likely that Alice called Swanson, pretending to be Marguerite, and that she threatened him, something on the order of, I need help to escape these terrible visions. I keep seeing you attacking my sister. Swanson would talk fast, as fast as he’d ever talked in his life, to convince her that she was simply overwrought but that he would come very late and they would have a private session in the gazebo and he would be able to banish these phantasms from her mind. He came with a gun, not because Alice asked him to bring one, but because he intended to commit murder.
A reasonable scenario, except for the gun. If Swanson committed the murder, he certainly would not have left the gun unless he lost his nerve, dropped it in the dark, didn’t have a flashlight, panicked and ran.
The gun. Wouldn’t it be odd if the gun that cinched his arrest turned out to be the one reason to believe every word he said?
Max tapped his pen on the table. “The phone call—you thought it was Marguerite?”
Swanson shifted in his chair. “Of course I did. She said she was Marguerite. She…” His face hardened. “Damn the bitch, I should have known. It didn’t sound quite like Marguerite. But close. Alice never did like me.”
Alice didn’t like Swanson, but more than that, Alice had been convinced that Happy had possessed papers which discredited Swanson.
“Okay”—Max looked quizzically at Swanson—“let’s say it happened just the way you’ve told us. Who shot Alice? And why? How could that person have been Johnny-on-the-spot? And how the hell did this unseen murderer get the gun?”
“Wait!” Annie shoved her hands through her hair. “Wait a minute.” She squeezed her eyes shut, thoughts caroming like maddened billiards: Alice set this up…Alice looked like Marguerite…Alice planned to trap Swanson…the gun…why the gun?
“Alice planned it!” Annie’s eyes gleamed. “That’s what never made sense. Why would she set up a meeting all by herself with a man she believed to be a murderer? Maybe she didn’t!”
Max squinted at her. “But she did,” he said patiently. “We know she called Swanson. That we know for sure.”
“But we don’t know what else Alice planned.” Annie hitched her chair closer to the table, looked eagerly at Swanson. “Alice believed you killed Happy. Obviously she hoped to trick you into a confession. But Alice was certainly not stupid enough to make a date with a killer and be defenseless. She asked you to bring the gun because her reason for calling as Marguerite was to pretend fear and demand a means of protection. It was dramatic enough that she was sure you’d respond to the call. But even with a gun, she had no intention of facing you down by herself.” Annie briefly pressed her fingers against her temple. “Not alone. Don’t you see? After she got the gun, that’s why she pretended to hear a noise and said she’d better go see. She ran out into the garden and gave the gun to the person waiting there, the person she’d asked to help her set a trap—”
Swanson watched Annie in dumb fascination.
“—the person she was depending upon to burst on the scene with the gun after she accused you and provoked you into attacking her. But Alice made a mistake. She chose the wrong confederate. Moreover, she was masquerading as Marguerite when she chose that person. Alice knew that the family members would never turn down a request from Marguerite. What a perfect setup. Here was a chance to kill Marguerite with a ready-made scapegoat at hand. Marguerite had announced her plans to give the money to the foundation, but she hadn’t signed away the money yet. With Marguerite dead, the money would never again be in jeopardy.”
Max
leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “It won’t work, Annie. Either Alice was damned unlucky and just happened to confide in Happy’s murderer or we are talking an opportunist second murderer and we still don’t know who killed Happy. And we are almost certainly talking a second murderer because the motive to kill Happy was to stop Happy”—he glanced toward Swanson—“from using those papers that she claimed would prevent Marguerite’s money going to the Evermore Foundation.”
“I don’t know who killed anybody. But I didn’t kill Happy. I was with Kate.” Swanson banged his hands on the table, the chains rattling. “For God’s sake, you’ve got to believe me.”
Thirty
ANNIE SMILED AS she walked up the stairs. From the game room came the cheerful click of billiards as Pudge and Max played a rousing game with cries of anguish and whoops of triumph.
On the second floor, Annie stopped at the door to the first guest bedroom. She tapped lightly.
“Come in.” Rachel’s voice was sleepy and contented.
Annie poked her head in the door. “Just wanted to say goodnight.”
The room had been a favorite of Laurel’s when she first visited the island, rose walls, white wicker furniture, a rose comforter. In the soft glow from the night-light, the room had a sweet warmth. Rachel’s dark hair was loose on the pillow. One small hand was tucked beneath her chin. “Good night.” Her eyes wavered, closed.
Annie gently shut the door. She walked slowly down the hall to their room. She heard Max and Pudge climbing the stairs. Pudge’s room was across the hall from Rachel.
Annie was slipping into pink shorty pajamas—rather lacy for winter, but Max liked them—when Max opened the door to their room and stepped inside. He looked at her appreciatively. He closed the door firmly. “Everyone is snug in their place.”
“I wish that were so.” Annie walked slowly to the sofa, dropped onto it. “Max, what if Rachel has to go back to that house? What if Swanson didn’t kill Happy and Alice?”
Max looked at her soberly. “I know. I’ve been thinking about it. The more I consider Swanson’s story, the more I’m torn. It’s so damn nutty, it may be true.”
“Which means”—Annie’s eyes were wide—“that Marguerite Dumaney is in danger.”
Max shook his head. “Nope. Swanson’s arrest took care of that. As long as she doesn’t make any move to siphon away the money, she’s okay.”
Annie shoved a hand through her thick blond hair. “Is she? Maybe somebody who’s already committed murder won’t hesitate to kill again. After all, waiting for an inheritance isn’t quite as satisfying as claiming one.”
“No.” Max tossed his shirt in the laundry hamper, hung up his slacks. “No more murders. That would prove Swanson’s innocence, reopen the investigations. The murderer has a goat. He’ll sit tight.”
“He?” Annie admired his smoothly muscled shoulders and legs.
“He or she.” Max turned toward her. His eyes brightened.
Annie sat cross-legged on the sofa, her pink pajamas a bright contrast to the green-and-blue-plaid fabric of the cushions. She looked across the room at the table in an alcove of the sitting room. A notebook rested there beside a pile of file folders. Maybe they should start over, go through that record, sift every word. If Swanson was innocent, they had to find the murderer. Rachel must not return to live in a house with a killer. That must not happen and, yes, if Swanson was innocent, he must go free. He might well be an unprincipled con man, but that crime was far short of murder.
Max dropped onto the sofa beside her, but his gaze was focused on a portion of a slender length of leg, specifically a creamy thigh. His hand reached out.
Annie absently picked up his hand, moved it aside, dropped it.
He reached out again.
Annie shifted position, but with unexpected results. “Max!”
He grinned happily. “You know”—his tone was conversational, but he slipped his other arm firmly around her, pulled her close—“often ideas come to you when you are asleep, and I know just the thing to help you relax….” The last few words were indistinct as his lips found hers.
The cheerful whistle brought her awake. Max pushed open the bedroom door, carrying a tray. “They’re still asleep. I made apple muffins and left a note about the coffee for Pudge.”
Annie slipped out of bed and padded toward the white oak table that sat in a bay window overlooking the backyard and the lagoon. “Max, look! Hurry!” She stretched out her hand.
He joined her in the alcove. A winter visitor, a sharp-billed woodcock, rose against the pale blue sky, spiraling higher and higher, fifty feet, seventy-five, a hundred, a hundred fifty. After a final spiral, the game bird’s body went limp. Max opened the window, stepped out on a balcony. Making a three-note whistle, the bird drifted down like a falling leaf until almost to the ground, when he zoomed into a grove of pines. “What a guy will do…” Max mused. He was smiling as he unloaded the tray, a bowl of papaya for him, orange juice for Annie, muffins and butter. He put the notebook and file folders on the windowsill.
Annie poured their coffee. “I’m sure she is very appreciative.” Max always took a deep interest in courtship rites. In the summer, he had been known to urge bullfrogs to bellow a little louder, just in case she wasn’t listening or had moss draped over her ears.
“I’ve been thinking.” Annie picked up the still-warm muffin. Mmm. Whipped sweet cream butter. “I don’t buy two murderers.”
Max dropped into his chair. He speared a piece of papaya. “Does anything else make sense? Why would any of the Ladsons want to murder Happy?”
Annie said tentatively, “Maybe Happy knew that someone planned to kill Marguerite.”
Max slapped his hand against his temple. “I know. They saw it in a crystal.”
She gave him a cold look. “Look, two murderers is nuttier than Swanson’s story.” She reached over to the windowsill, retrieved Max’s notebook and tore out a couple of sheets. “We can figure this out.” She wrote industriously for a moment, then pushed the sheet to him.
Max ate and read.
HAPPY’S MURDER
Possible suspects, alibis, motives:
1. Emory Swanson. Alibied by Kate Rutledge. Motive: To prevent Happy from making public information which might discredit him with Marguerite Dumaney.
2. Rachel Van Meer. Alibied by Mike Hernandez. Although there was still time for Rachel to attack her mother either before or after Mike’s visit.) Motive: Anger over her mother’s efforts to keep her from seeing Mike.
3. Mike Hernandez. Alibied by Rachel. Ditto in re timing and motive.
4. Marguerite Dumaney. Alibied by Alice Schiller. (Cannot now be confirmed. However, Schiller’s comment to Annie made casually.) No known motive. The sisters were quarreling about Marguerite’s plan to give the bulk of her money to Emory Swanson.
5. Alice Schiller. Alibied by Marguerite Dumaney. (Can be checked but no need as Alice subsequently killed.) No known motive. On good terms with Happy Laurance.
6. Wayne Ladson. No alibi. No known motive.
7. Terry Ladson. No alibi. No known motive.
8. Donna Ladson Farrell. No alibi. No known motive.
9. Joan Ladson. No alibi. No known motive.
ALICE’S MURDER
Possible suspects, alibis, motives. Note bene: Killer thought the victim was Marguerite so motives evaluated in terms of Marguerite.
1. Emory Swanson. Admits being present at the time of the murder. Motive: To escape arrest as Happy’s murderer.
2. Rachel Van Meer. Alibied by Annie Darling. No known motive.
3. Mike Hernandez. Alibi? No known motive.
4. Marguerite Dumaney. No known motive.
5. Wayne Ladson. No alibi although apparently awakened from a deep sleep not long after the shot. There would have been time for Wayne to return to his room between the shot and Annie’s knock on his door. Motive: To secure the family fortune.
6. Terry Ladson. No alibi. Ditto.
&nbs
p; 7. Donna Ladson Farrell. No alibi. Ditto.
8. Joan Ladson. No alibi. Ditto.
Max sipped his coffee. “If both murders were committed by the same person, and assuming the alibis stand up, the suspects are limited to that cheery group of inheritance-assured Ladsons: Wayne, Terry, Donna, and Joan.”
Annie tapped Wayne’s name. “After I heard the shot, I checked on Rachel and called the police before I went to his room. You’re right, there could have been time for him to come inside and get to his room. Let’s think about Alice for a minute. Remember, she’s convinced Swanson is guilty. She’s looking for a backup. She certainly couldn’t go to Marguerite. Who would she pick?”
Wayne, Terry, Donna or Joan.
Max’s tone was thoughtful. “But not a motive among them to kill Happy.”
“There has to be a reason we don’t know about.” Annie reached over to the sill, scooped up the folders. “Are these the dossiers on the Ladsons?”
“Be my guest. If there’s a pointer to Happy’s murder in those files, I missed it.” He flipped to a fresh page in the notebook and began to write.
Annie skimmed the dossiers. She knew that the Ladson siblings were born in Beverly Hills. After Claude’s divorce, their mother moved with them to Laguna and they grew up there. It was no surprise to learn that Wayne excelled in school all the way through postgraduate studies, Terry barely made it through high school and Donna went to an elite, expensive junior college for rich girls with no career aspirations. Joan Ladson née Lewis was a superior student whom Wayne met at Stanford while working on his doctorate after his return from Vietnam in 1974.