by Carolyn Hart
“Sheesh.” Terry’s eyebrows quirked. “I thought you hated his guts.”
“Actually,” Donna drawled, “if anyone did it—”
Joan whirled. Her hand whipped through the air. The sound of the slap was sharp and distinct.
Donna stumbled back, her cheek flaming.
Wayne was between them in an instant, his arm around Joan, pulling her along with him. “Hey, it’s all right. I didn’t shoot anybody.” He looked down at his former wife, his face puzzled. “Hell, you never lie about anything.”
She looked up, her face turning a bright red, her lips trembling. “I know you, Wayne. You don’t care about money. You love the house, but you’d never hurt anyone, not really hurt them. You wouldn’t shoot Marguerite.”
“How can you know that?” His eyes sought hers.
She looked at him without pretense, the love and sadness and heartbreak there for him, for everyone, to see. “I know you.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. He looked straight at her. “If you know me, why did you believe I’d drop you for a girl? Why didn’t you ask me about her?”
“Wayne?” It was scarcely more than a whisper.
“I didn’t care about her. She chased me. She was a tramp and she thought I was rich. I never gave a damn about her. But you heard the gossip and you left.” He bit his lip, struggled, then said, his voice shaking, “You left.”
And, with a sigh, she was in his arms.
“I suppose he does want the house.” Marguerite’s voice was cold, remorseless. “Is that why he killed Alice?”
Wayne gently disengaged from Joan, though he held tight to her hand. “Let’s get this straight, Marguerite. It’s a damn clever scenario, but there’s one piece missing.” His bright eyes bored into Annie’s. “You’re missing a little step in your equation. Sure, you can spout why one of us might shoot Marguerite, but none of us, not a single one, had any reason to kill Happy. I sure as hell didn’t.”
Annie hoped for the right words because this was the moment. “Wayne is asking the right question. Who killed Happy? Anyone could have killed Marguerite at any time. That didn’t happen. Instead, Happy died—good-natured, kind, silly Happy. Everything else that happened flowed from Happy’s murder. That’s what we realized this afternoon when we found Happy’s papers.”
Annie saw an instant of utter stillness on the murderer’s part, the physical reaction to an utterly unexpected and shocking revelation.
Annie watched that still face. “Chief, please read what we found.”
Chief Garrett, his round face intent, pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket. He cleared his throat. The only sounds were the rustle of palm fronds in the breeze and the faraway whistle of the ferryboat. “These papers”—his voice was uninflected—“were discovered this afternoon by Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Darling. They had been fastened with duct tape to the bottom of a marble bench in the center of the maze…”
Rachel pressed her hand against her mouth.
“…and contain the fingerprints of Mrs. Happy Laurance. There are three items, all Xerox copies: two sheets from a girl’s diary, a printout of the vital statistics column from the May 24, 1961 issue of the Reno Gazette-Journal and the envelope in which the three sheets were contained.” He unfolded the sheets. “The diary excerpt reads: ‘Daddy is so mad at Rita. She was gone a whole week with that man from the ski place. Daddy got a private detective to find her and bring her home. Daddy told her he’s paid the man off. Rita is mad as she can be. She told me she’d have her way because Daddy didn’t know they’d got married. Daddy said we can’t go back to the lake and I hope it doesn’t ruin our summer. I’m going to get to go to camp pretty soon anyway and that will be fun.’” Garrett cleared his throat. “The copy of the vital statistics lists twenty-six marriage licenses issued.” He lifted his eyes and looked across the dusty ground at Marguerite Dumaney. “Including a license to Wendell George Harrison, thirty-four, and Marguerite Dumaney, eighteen, both of Los Angeles.”
Marguerite waved her hand in dismissal. “A youthful foolishness, Captain. Certainly nothing that matters now. It was annulled, of course. I was just a girl.”
Garrett held up an envelope. “On the outside, your sister had written in capital letters: ‘NO DIVORCE.’”
The silence was broken by a whoop. “No divorce!” Terry’s eyes glittered. “You were never legally married to Dad. No divorce! The money”—and his voice was rich with satisfaction—“belongs to us.”
Marguerite fingered the golden necklace at her throat. The only hint of strain in her beautiful haggard face was the guarded watchfulness in deep-set dark eyes. However, she managed a derisive smile. “I see this as simply an effort to protect Rachel. After all, it was her hockey stick that was used to kill Happy. No one could ever say that I had any reason to kill my dear Alice.”
Annie began to feel a sweep of panic. Marguerite seemed impervious. And yes, even if it could be proven that the long-ago marriage occurred and that there was no divorce and that the Ladson fortune was not hers, that was no proof of murder—and still there was the hockey stick with Rachel’s fingerprints and the gun with Swanson’s fingerprints.
Marguerite continued to smile.
Annie stared into those dark eyes and knew that she was looking into the soul of a murderer.
Wayne stared at the gazebo. “Marguerite’s got a point there. Why the hell would she go through that charade that Alice cooked up? Or are you saying it was Marguerite who called Swanson?”
Annie pressed her fingers against her temples. No. Alice had told Annie that she had a plan. Annie remembered that moment—her head jerked up. She looked at the old actress with her perfect features and eyes filled with darkness.
“Alice.” Annie spoke the name with force and a curl of horror. “Alice called Swanson. She met him. She took the gun. Then she ran up the path and here came Marguerite. Alice had told Marguerite that Swanson would meet her that night. Alice told Marguerite that Swanson was waiting.” Annie pointed toward the hooded figure. “It was Alice who came around the gazebo, Alice who used the gun to shoot Marguerite. It was Alice who would do anything to keep Marguerite from losing the money, the money that made Alice’s life in comfort possible. Then, with murder done, Alice saw how she could enjoy that money even more. She became Marguerite.”
Alice Schiller, her face sharpening into ugliness, turned to run.
Thirty-two
RACHEL LOOKED BACK one more time at the two new graves, sisters buried side by side. Mounds of flowers still covered the humped gray dirt on each. But Rachel had found a place for the red-and-white-striped cane made of carnations. “Mom loved candy canes.”
Annie slipped her arm around Rachel’s shoulders. They followed the dusty gray path to the road where the car was parked. The cemetery was quiet, late on this afternoon before Christmas Eve. As they got into the car, Rachel said softly, “I’m glad it wasn’t Aunt Rita. She and Mom loved each other even if they fussed a lot.”
Dust rose behind the Volvo. Annie drove slowly through the thick shadows. “I’m glad, too.”
Rachel’s hands locked tightly together. “How did you know it was Alice?”
Annie slowed for a big-antlered deer. He certainly had the right of way as far as she was concerned. On the main road, she picked up speed. “I almost didn’t,” she said ruefully. “If I hadn’t figured that out, Alice would have gotten away with two murders. Even with your mom’s papers, there was no proof. But once anyone questioned ‘Marguerite’s’ identity, Alice was done.”
Rachel was impatient. “How did you know?”
“I looked into her eyes.” Annie would never forget that moment. “She was so sure of herself, so confident, so utterly composed. Yet, only a few days before, Marguerite had been so distraught by her sister’s death that she insisted Swanson come and hold a séance that very night. Would a murderer who believed in contacting the dead arrange to contact her victim? I don’t think so. The next day Marguerite remained in he
r room. Why? Because she was grieving. Yet at that moment near the gazebo, she looked at me, unmoved by the accusation that she’d murdered her sister. And Marguerite never lost faith in Swanson. The only suggestion that Marguerite was suspicious of him came from Alice. Alice told me she had a plan. I’ll say she did. She knew about Marguerite’s first marriage and she knew it had never been dissolved. She knew the money belonged to the Ladsons. Alice didn’t want that money to be taken away, so she killed your mom, trying to make it look as though you were guilty. Then she had a brilliant idea. Entice Swanson to the garden, have him bring a gun, get that gun, excuse herself with a promise to return. In the meantime, she’d arranged for Marguerite to come down to meet Swanson. The minute Marguerite arrived, Alice shot her, tossed the gun into the shrubs and hurried back to the house. She was already dressed as Marguerite. She simply waited for the body to be discovered. Now she was sure of the money and finally she was the star, the star she’d always wanted to be.”
Rachel shivered. “She was evil.”
Who was Alice? Annie knew they would never be certain. She was a beautiful woman, an accomplished actress. She’d been tempted and had succumbed. Was she prompted by fear of losing the only home she’d known for much of her life? Had jealousy festered within her since she was young and Marguerite was the star and she only the pale imitation? Was she frightened, angry, jealous or simply an opportunist? “She was formidable.” Annie shot a quick glance at Rachel. “But that doesn’t matter now. What matters now is the future. Hey, did we remember the popcorn balls?”
Rachel craned to look in the backseat. “There they are. Annie, can I hand out the popcorn balls?” Her eyes brightened; the tension eased in her hands.
“Sure. But don’t let Agatha get one. The last time we had an open house, somebody dropped one and it stuck to her tail. I’ve never seen a madder cat.”
Rachel giggled.
Annie drove a little faster. They were almost to the harbor. “And one time, we had a whole tray of shrimp and…”
“Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” boomed from the CD player. The tip of Ingrid’s Santa Claus hat hung dangerously near the punch bowl as she added another half gallon of lime sherbet. The second bowl glistened with the rich yellow of egg nog. Trifle filled the third bowl.
Max carried a tray of raspberry brownies. “So who says raspberry brownies aren’t Christmas cookies?” Annie had demanded pugnaciously. She reached for a brownie and was rewarded with both her favorite sweet and a rollicking smile from the world’s most handsome husband. Rachel darted in and out of clumps of revelers, holding up a plastic bowl filled with popcorn balls. Pudge was working the cash desk. Laurel spooned dollops of whipped cream onto steaming mugs of cocoa and dealt graciously with a coterie of male admirers, her faithful beau Howard, new stalwart Fred Jeffries, pink-faced Pete Garrett, the club golf pro, penguin-shaped Mayor Cosgrove, and a jaunty Terry Ladson.
Familiar faces were everywhere. The doyenne of Chastain, Miss Dora Brevard, was deep in conversation with Emma Clyde, creator of world-famous sleuth Marigold Rembrandt. Annie wondered what they were discussing. She slipped around a group debating—and the level of discourse might be described as heated—the primacy of Agatha Christie or Raymond Chandler.
Miss Dora, dark eyes glittering in her parchment face, exuded satisfaction. “Dear Laurel got the goods”—her word choice reflected a fondness for Erle Stanley Gardner novels—“on Dr. Swanson. There’s no doubt about it. The Evermore Foundation is closed, monies have been returned to those fleeced and Swanson and his lady have departed from the island.”
“Good show.” Emma shrugged her large shoulders, and her red-and-green-striped caftan rippled like Christmas candy. Her piercing blue eyes swung toward Annie. “Oh, there you are. I know you don’t think it’s fair—”
Footsteps marched smartly down the central aisle toward the coffee bar. Henny Brawley called out, “Hello, hello, hello, I didn’t know whether I’d ever get out of Pittsburgh except by dog sled, but here I am. I couldn’t miss the Christmas party.”
Annie hurried up to give her a hug. Certainly no Christmas party would be the same without Henny. Before she could say a word, Henny glanced up at the watercolors over the fireplace.
Emma, her square face utterly determined, snapped, “Without Lawful—”
Henny was not to be bested. She rattled off the titles, “Without Lawful Authority by Manning Coles, Green for Danger—”
A male voice overrode both Emma’s deep growl and Henny’s light tone.
“—by Christianna Brand, The Clock Strikes Twelve by Patricia Wentworth, Man Running by Selwyn Jepson, and The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey.”
Pete Garrett’s face turned from pink to red when he realized he was the focus of bemused fascination by Miss Dora, Emma, Henny, and Annie.
Emma, known for her forthrightness, made it clear. “How could you possibly know those books? They are all by British authors and were published in the 1940s.”
“Before you were born!” Henny added darkly.
“We used to spend Christmas with my grandmother.” He grinned. “My granddad brought home a war bride from England. But”—he was magnanimous in victory—“I’d say we had a three-way tie.”
Three faces turned expectantly toward Annie.
Three free books?
Oh hey, it was Christmas!
About the Author
An accomplished master of mystery, CAROLYN HART is the author of sixteen previous Death on Demand novels. She is also the creator of the highly praised Henrie O series. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, she lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
www.carolynhart.com
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Praise for CAROLYN HART,
SUGARPLUM DEAD
and the previous
DEATH ON DEMAND mysteries
“A neat whodunnit worthy of Dame Agatha.”
Toronto Globe and Mail
“A lively tale with well-drawn characters who are credibly dysfunctional. Mystery fans will appreciate all the inside references to their favorite authors, and Hart again pays homage to Agatha Christie with her puzzle plot.”
Orlando Sentinel
“Carolyn Hart’s craftsmanship makes her mystery’s Queen of C’s—cozy, clever, and chockfull of charm.”
Mary Daheim
“A Christmas delight… SUGARPLUM DEAD charms, intrigues, puzzles, and astounds with gentle wit and sly satire—vintage Carolyn Hart.”
Joan Hess
“It’s always a delight to find a new book by Carolyn Hart.”
Chattanooga Times
“What a Christmas gift Carolyn Hart has given us in SUGARPLUM DEAD. I think it’s by far the best of the Annie and Max Darling series, which says a lot. Bravo Carolyn! And thanks.”
Anne George
“A Christmas goodie…Has any stage been more elaborately scripted for murder? Well, no, not since Agatha Christie devised this type of closed-world scenario. But Hart, who many times has acknowledged her debt to Christie, serves up a stunning surprise at the climax that puts all of us smarties in our place.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“The joy in Hart’s novels derives from revisiting recurring characters from previous Annie and Max novels—especially Annie’s rambunctious mother-in-law, Laurel, and her two cats, Agatha and Dorothy L.”
San Diego Union-Tribune
“Carolyn Hart embodies the spirit of Agatha Christie more than any other contemporary writer. With her energy, ingenuity, and sparkling sense of humor, Hart writes stories that Dame Agatha herseslf would have loved.”
Dean James
“Carolyn Hart is a shining star in the mystery galaxy.”
Jackson Clarion-Ledger
“The Darling duo is as winning as ever.”
Baltimore Sun
“I’ll admit it: I’m a sucker for Christmas stories. And I’m also a sucker for Carolyn Hart�
��s Annie and Max series. SUGARPLUM DEAD adds to that series in a wonderful, enriching way.”
Robert Crais
“Although it has a Christmas theme, this is a mystery to be enjoyed year round.”
Oklahoma City Oklahoman
“Hart’s strong suit is characterization; the people romping through her pages come vividly alive. And the Darlings are appealing co-protagonists, reminiscent of the fictional ‘Mr. and Mrs. North.’”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Carolyn Hart is a joy to read.”
Glen Cove Record-Pilot
“Carolyn Hart’s thoughtful, innovative mysteries make her, without a doubt, among the best crime writers living today.”
Earlene Fowler
Also by Carolyn Hart
Death on Demand
DEATH ON DEMAND
DESIGN FOR MURDER
SOMETHING WICKED
HONEYMOON WITH MURDER
A LITTLE CLASS ON MURDER
DEADLY VALENTINE
THE CHRISTIE CAPER
SOUTHERN GHOST
MINT JULEP MURDER
YANKEE DOODLE DEAD
WHITE ELEPHANT DEAD
Henrie O
DEAD MAN’S ISLAND
SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN
DEATH IN LOVERS’ LANE
DEATH IN PARADISE
DEATH ON THE RIVER WALK
And in Hardcover
RESORT TO MURDER
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SUGARPLUM DEAD. Copyright © 2000 by Carolyn Hart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.