Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Carolyn Hart

  SUGARPLUM

  DEAD

  A DEATH ON DEMAND MYSTERY

  To Sarah in gratitude for

  all the laughter we’ve shared.

  Contents

  Prologue

  “WHAT AM I going to do?” Happy heard her own…

  One

  ANNIE LAURANCE DARLING crouched on the floor by the coffee…

  Two

  SHE TOOK A step backward.

  Three

  ANNIE GLANCED IN her rearview mirror. That blue Ford had…

  Four

  A LIGHT FLASHED on his phone. Max pushed back his…

  Five

  MAX PAUSED OUTSIDE the heavy wooden door of Parotti’s Bar…

  Six

  ANNIE HAD ALWAYS enjoyed the flair for originality on Broward’s…

  Seven

  MAX PAUSED IN his casual progress toward the evening’s lion…

  Eight

  ANNIE WAITED UNTIL Max slammed his door and turned on…

  Nine

  ANNIE LOOPED A garland of red and green tinsel over…

  Ten

  PARKING OUT OF sight of the big house, Annie hurried…

  Eleven

  ANNIE PLACED THE silver in the dishwasher. “Thanks for having…

  Twelve

  ANNIE PUT DOWN Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer place mats, a…

  Thirteen

  HER UNFORGETTABLE FACE ravaged by grief, her eyes brilliant with…

  Fourteen

  THE ARCHWAY FROM the terrace room led to the over-furnished…

  Fifteen

  “YOU WON’T GO away?” Rachel stood by the bathroom door…

  Sixteen

  “WAIT A MINUTE.” Garrett’s eyes scoured Rachel’s face. He held…

  Seventeen

  MAX DELIBERATELY CHOSE a chair in the corner of the…

  Eighteen

  “THANKS, INGRID. IF you’ll take care of everything at the…

  Nineteen

  THE VOLVO SQUEALED into the Dumaney drive. Annie jolted to…

  Twenty

  ANNIE GLANCED DOWN the hall when she reached the second…

  Twenty-one

  THE HALF DOZEN silver bracelets on each arm jangled as…

  Twenty-two

  MAX WAS ALMOST to the door when the telephone rang…

  Twenty-three

  ANNIE HEARD A thump above her head as she walked…

  Twenty-four

  THE CANDLELIGHT WAVERED as Emory Swanson closed the door. Shadows…

  Twenty-five

  FLAMES SPIKED AGAINST the velvet black of the sky, shooting…

  Twenty-six

  ANNIE BANGED THROUGH the kitchen door, her face eager.

  Twenty-seven

  ANNIE SHIVERED, WATCHED the patterns of moonlight and cloud against…

  Twenty-eight

  AN UNEASY QUIET lay over the Dumaney house. Joan and…

  Twenty-nine

  KATE RUTLEDGE WALKED into the small storeroom. Max closed the…

  Thirty

  ANNIE SMILED AS she walked up the stairs. From the…

  Thirty-one

  ANNIE STARED AT a dark oblong on the wall of…

  Thirty-two

  RACHEL LOOKED BACK one more time at the two new…

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Carolyn Hart

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  “WHAT AM I going to do?” Happy heard her own voice, high, breathless, uneven. And shrill. Her mouth curved down, forlorn as a sad-faced clown. She stared in the mirror and spoke again. “Now, Happy, no more of this!” There, she sounded better, sounded like herself. A soft voice, sweet as summer berries. Appealing.

  But the change in pitch didn’t solve anything, didn’t show her any way out of the cloud of discord that was going to surround all of them as surely as the December fog curled and eddied around the house, swirled over the marsh. Throughout her life, she’d made it a point to avoid unpleasantness. But this time…

  Marguerite, of course, left trouble trailing behind her. She always had and always would. Daddy had called Marguerite Scarlett because every place that Scarlett O’Hara went, trouble followed. But he had nicknamed her, his other daughter, the child of his late middle age, Miss Happy-Go-Lucky, saying that when she breezed into a room, she made everybody happy. And she had, hadn’t she? Even though the laughter in later years seemed too often to turn to tears. But that was when she moved on, happy-go-lucky, determined to be carefree. Because that’s who she was.

  Tears filmed Happy’s blue eyes, eyes that so long ago had mastered the art of beguilement, eyes that had made a lifelong practice of never seeing anything they didn’t want to see. For an instant, her protective mental mantle parted, just long enough to wonder how it might have been different. What if Daddy had called Marguerite Lionheart? Would Marguerite have envisioned herself as courageous and undaunted, devoted to her followers, rather than beleaguered and alone? What if, instead of Happy-Go-Lucky, her own nickname had been Maid Marian? Would she have been stalwart and steady?

  Happy. She’d always tried to be happy. But how could she be happy when it seemed obvious that everyone in the family was destined to quarrel? As soon as the others learned of Marguerite’s mad plan, tempers would erupt. The atmosphere was already tense. Scholarly Wayne, who usually kept his nose in a book and his study door shut, had taken to walking about the grounds, staring up at the house, a house he had always refused to leave. Self-effacing Alice, who’d put up with Marguerite through a lifetime of tempests, was increasingly somber. The others would arrive today: platinum-haired Donna, who loved objects more than people; bluff and hearty Terry, who swaggered and always needed money; and hapless Joan, who’d never really gotten over her divorce from Wayne. Even her own spunky Rachel was being difficult, flipping her dark hair, glaring at Happy with rebellious eyes. As for Marguerite, she was flaunting her the-world-be-damned look.

  Marguerite: famous, still beautiful in a gaunt, haggard way, vain, spoiled, vulnerable. And, of course, rich. Very, very rich. Generous certainly in her own fashion, making a place for Happy and Rachel, for Wayne, and always welcoming Donna and Joan and Terry. But that generosity might end. Unless…

  Happy fingered the gold chain at her throat. She felt a flutter of fear. Where could she and Rachel go? Nowhere, nowhere.

  Deep in the recesses of her mind, a solution stirred. She shivered. Confrontation, a word and act alien to her. But she had to do something. And do it soon.

  At least she could count on Pudge. She’d felt much better since Pudge had arrived. She’d traced him down in Puerto Vallarta. Trust Pudge to be in a warm place. Visiting friends, of course. There was never a fixed address for Pudge. His arrival yesterday had seemed an omen that all might come right.

  For an instant, a sweet, happy smile softened her face, brought a glow to her eyes. Dear Pudge. They’d made quite a good pair, she and Pudge. Her smile dimmed. But it hadn’t worked. Pudge had charm, but he was here for a while, then there. Sweet as could be, but always saying good-bye. In fact, she’d been pleased and surprised that he’d responded to her call. She’d invited him for the holidays. Time enough to ask his advice. Of course, she’d told him her worries about Rachel. Pudge adored Rachel.

  Happy’s eyes were suddenly shrewd. Pudge was probably broke. But that was all right. There was enough money. Or had always been until now. Oh, what was she going to do?

  Wayne Ladson finished the sentence:

  …apparent that the appraisals of Abernethy and Turner slighted the importance of the Eastern urban laboring classes on Andrew Jackson’s presidency. The question then arises…
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  Wayne paused and stared unseeingly out the casement window at the terraced garden sloping down to the lagoon, a part of his mind still engaged in his essay, picturing Jackson’s elegant face, high forehead, long slender nose, piercing blue eyes, rounded heavy chin. Interesting to wonder just how desperate Jackson had felt when promissory notes he’d signed in a land deal came back to haunt him.

  Money.

  Wayne’s vague gaze sharpened. He felt a wave of distaste. Why did everything always come down to money? Then and now. Behind the dash and glamour of history were always columns of figures, pots of gold, hunger for land, for minerals, for power. He put down his pen. He was drawn to the past because it was at a remove, the passions and clashes reduced but still stirring, like the sound of distant trumpets. Abruptly, he pushed away the legal pad, stood and walked to the window.

  Normally he would have worked throughout the day, taking time to eat lunch on a tray, absorbed and happy in his work. But he couldn’t continue to ignore Marguerite’s idiocy. Not that he cared what causes she embraced. However, that latest vague comment worried him. Marguerite had murmured, “The market is so high now. Why, the house could sell for as much as two million. Two million—why, that could make such a difference in psychic research.” Surely she didn’t mean to get rid of this house. She couldn’t do that to him.

  But, he realized, his gaze grim, she very well could. Dad had left the house to Marguerite, the house and all his estate. Of course, this was Wayne’s home. Marguerite knew that. She’d never suggested that Wayne leave.

  Psychic research. Dad would have hooted at that. How could Marguerite be such a fool?

  Wayne stood at the window. Slowly, he began to smile. There might be a solution. There was the research he’d once done on the wave of spiritualism that swept the country after the Great War. He’d written a piece or two. He swung about, walked to an old wooden filing cabinet, pulled out the middle drawer.

  Alice Schiller held the orchid silk dress carefully. She was always careful with Rita’s clothes. That had been one of her duties for so long. She was accustomed to the feel of finery, had known loveliness secondhand for almost a lifetime. She stared into the ormolu-framed mirror into dark mocking eyes so like her own. Even after all these years together, she always felt a shock of amazement when she saw Rita’s face, the so-famous face of Marguerite Dumaney. She remembered the first time they’d met on a set in Santa Monica and Rita, young then, had gestured to her. “Come closer. Let me see you.” Rita had reached out, tousled Alice’s dark red hair until it drooped like her own. “Some makeup and she’ll be perfect. At least at a distance,” and her low throaty laugh welled. It could have been insulting. Instead, Alice had looked into those compelling eyes and been enchanted as all the world was then. Almost forty years ago, the exciting years as Rita’s stand-in punctuated by Rita’s marriage, travel, successes and, finally, escape. When they left Hollywood, Rita tossed that richly auburn hair, still with its memorable wave, and said huskily, “Always leave while the band’s still playing.”

  So many years. “Rita…” Alice carefully laid the dress on the bed, but then she stood straight and tall. She didn’t really sound like Rita now, though she could still recreate that throaty drawl. She heard her own voice, thin and bloodless in comparison with Rita’s, but challenging, nonetheless.

  Before Alice could get the words out, Rita pushed back the gilt chair and turned, one thin, elegant hand outstretched. She was, as always, a dramatic actress, blazing eyes, hollowed cheeks, blood-red lips.

  “Alice,” the husky voice commanded, “you will do as I say.”

  Donna Ladson Farrell always flew first class. But not today. Her face was sullen as she boarded, angry at sitting in the tourist section, wishing she could shove Marguerite into the seat next to that squalling baby. How dare Marguerite send a cheap ticket! After all, she was Donna Ladson! She slammed into the seat and thrust her Louis Vuitton bag beneath the seat in front. She didn’t have the miles to upgrade because there’d not been enough money to travel this last year. She’d just managed to keep the gallery open and make the first night parties in new gowns. But she couldn’t get any more dresses, not until she paid the outstanding bills. Thirty-five thousand dollars. Outrageous how much it cost to dress properly. But if she didn’t wear a new dress, the whispers would start, that she was old hat, and worse, that she was poor. No one in Hollywood would have anything to do with her if word got out that she was short on money. It was bad to be old; it was death to be poor.

  Donna smoothed back a ringlet of white-gold hair. She might be sitting among hoi polloi, but she looked first class. She’d almost refused to make this hellish flight across country. But she had no choice. Marguerite was generous at Christmas. This time Donna needed a big infusion of cash.

  Generous. Donna’s mouth twisted. With Dad’s money. The bitch.

  Terry Ladson checked the fuel gauge. God, it was hell to be broke. He’d have to take on fuel before he could leave. The cruiser moved smoothly through the water. A dark green smudge loomed suddenly out of the low-hanging cloud bank. Terry’s sunburned face split in a grin. Oh well, what the hell. It was always good to be on the water. If those last two charter parties hadn’t canceled, he’d have been in the chips. Well, maybe not in the chips. There’d been the cost of rebuilding the motor down in San Juan and that old pirate had taken him for a cleaning. But when you don’t have a choice, you pay the freight. Anyway, the food was good at Marguerite’s and she’d always liked him. He was willing to bet she’d ante up at least ten grand. Then he could go to Bermuda. And someday—the old hag couldn’t live forever—there would be money to burn. He envisioned a forty-five-foot yacht with mahogany paneling, the latest in sonar, big enough for a crew and he would be captain….

  He was still smiling as he turned the wheel and the cruiser headed for a familiar channel. He was never down for long and he always had a grand picture of himself, a hell of a swaggering guy in his white captain’s hat and blue jacket. If he’d looked at his own photograph, he would never have noticed that he was middle-aged and running to a paunch with a too-red, bloated face topped by thinning hair.

  Joan Ladson struggled to push her suitcase into the overhead rack of the bus. No one offered to help. She stood on tiptoe and shoved, then sank into a hard seat and stared out the window. She didn’t see the graceful fronds of palmetto or the fences draped with bougainvillea. She clutched her purse. She mustn’t lose her purse. It contained her return ticket. When she’d received the letter from Marguerite with the invitation to spend Christmas on the island, she’d wanted to fling it into the trash. Why should she go there and be humiliated, as she’d felt humiliated ever since Wayne and that girl got involved? At least Wayne hadn’t married the little tramp. Joan had waited, expecting that final blow, but it never came. And now Marguerite asked her to come, demanded that she come, really. So she was on her way. She hadn’t had a choice, really, even though the timing was awkward. She’d had to take off before the official Christmas vacation began. It was vintage Marguerite, asking everyone to come for her birthday celebration on the fifteenth, then stay for Christmas though that was ten days away. Could she be in the same house with Wayne for ten days? Well, she was leaving the day after Christmas. If the girls didn’t need money, she wouldn’t have come. But they did need money, more money than she as a librarian or Wayne as a teacher could manage—though, to give Wayne his due, he helped out as much as he could. But Eileen was in Europe for her junior year and it would be stupid to be there and never go and see anything. And Rosalie was expecting the baby next month and Chris had just lost his job and they needed everything.

  Marguerite had everything. Joan stared at the window. How much would Marguerite give her?

  Rachel Van Meer stopped beside the lagoon. She stared at her reflection, wavering, uncertain, making her look thinner than ever. She was just a jangle of bones. Thin and stupid and terminally ugly.

  Mike didn’t think she was ugly.

&nb
sp; Mike…

  She looked over her shoulder. The dumb house was so big it had more windows than a Disney castle. She hated the house. But if they hadn’t come to live with Aunt Marguerite, she would never have met Mike. At least the place didn’t seem so much like a mausoleum since Pudge and the others had come. And there were fun Christmas decorations everywhere. Best of all, nobody was paying any attention to her, not with so much company, and she could slip away and spend more time with Mike. Her dark mood was swept away by a flash of happiness, a feeling so unaccustomed and so delicious that she waited a minute longer, savoring the golden sensation even though she heard the steady snip, snip, snip of clippers, calling to her as clearly as throbbing drums.

  Mike was there within the maze, clipping. And waiting for her. Rachel glanced once more toward the house, the immense many-windowed house, then darted into the opening in the dark, tall, heavy-scented shrubbery.

  The evergreen branches slowly ceased to move, the cessation as gentle and unremarkable as the curtain that slowly drooped into place at a window on the second floor.

  Pudge Laurance ambled on the walk that curved around the harbor. He wasn’t much for fog. Or early morning walks, for that matter. But he needed to get out of that house. No wonder Happy was spooked. Although she was vintage Happy when he tried to find out what was bothering her, fluttering her eyelashes and murmuring vaguely, “Everything will be all right. I feel so much better since you’ve come, and we do want to have a happy Christmas. We won’t worry about a thing until after Christmas,” and she stared at him with those huge blue eyes that begged for reassurance. Oh well, she wasn’t the real reason he’d come to Broward’s Rock. When Happy’s call came—“Oh Pudge, it would be so nice to see you again at Christmas. And Rachel will be thrilled”—he’d had a swift picture of a long-ago Christmas and a little girl with golden ringlets, reaching up to him with chubby hands.