Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Someone should have seen to Rachel. How long had she been locked away? What did she know? Would she let Annie help? Though Annie knew better than most that nothing would ever help in one sense, but in another love always helped. She faced Alice. “I’ll try. Yes, I will try. But first you have to tell me what’s happened. I don’t know anything, how Happy died or when or where, or who found her.” Pray God it had not been Rachel. “I have to know before I talk to her.” She needed to know for Rachel. She had to know for Pudge.

  Why hadn’t Pudge denied killing Happy? Annie pushed the thought away, stared at Alice Schiller.

  Alice wrung her hands and looked anxiously up the path. “I must hurry.” Her mobile face—and once again there was that echo of Marguerite’s emotive brilliance—shifted, flattened, as if pummeled by shock. “This morning”—her thin voice dropped, mournful as a winter wind—“I was coming out of Marguerite’s suite. The door to Happy’s suite opened.” Her eyes slid toward Annie, then away.

  Annie remembered once diving into a wave and coming up enmeshed in slippery fronds of seaweed and the sweaty wash of panic as she thrashed to break free. Was this how Pudge felt? Were he and Max still in the house? There was no one down at the dock now, not even Billy Cameron.

  Alice fingered the irregular chunks of turquoise in her necklace and continued to avoid Annie’s eyes.

  Annie knew, but she had to ask. “Who came out?”

  “Mr. Laurance.” The name dangled between them. Alice cleared her throat, then spoke quickly, the words tumbling out in that thin voice. “He poked his head out first, looked up and down the hall. He didn’t see me. People often don’t.” She said the last calmly, without much interest. “He came out into the hall. He was carrying something. He turned away from me, toward the stairs. He looked back into the room and he shuddered. I thought perhaps he was ill. Then he reached out and pulled the door shut very slowly. There wasn’t any noise at all.”

  Annie listened with growing despair.

  Alice hunched her shoulders. “It was so strange. The minute the door closed, he ran. I was shocked. A moment before, I’d thought he was sick. Then he ran. He reached the stairs and went down them and he was gone. I walked up the hall. When I came to Happy’s door, I stopped and knocked. I was on my way to see her. Marguerite wanted her to come for breakfast.”

  To push away the vision of Pudge bolting out of that room, easing shut the door, then running, Annie asked, though it scarcely mattered, “Was that usual?”

  Alice nodded. “Oh yes. Marguerite needs attention, you know. Sometimes she’d ask Happy, sometimes Wayne, sometimes a guest. When she was bored with me for company.” Once again she was matter-of-fact, not resentful, simply reporting. “This morning she wanted Happy. Happy never minded. She always liked visiting. She liked being with people. Happy…” She paused, swallowed, pressed a hand against her throat. “Everyone loved Happy.”

  Annie looked at her sharply, wondering if Alice heard the absurdity in her statement. Because someone sure as hell hadn’t loved Happy.

  Alice continued, almost as if to herself. “Happy was so bright and sweet. Serious, you know, and perhaps a little silly. Marguerite said she wasn’t very bright. But that wasn’t fair. Happy adored Marguerite. She wasn’t the least bit jealous, either, even though Marguerite was already famous when Happy was just a little girl. We’d come to visit them and Marguerite was always in a whirl of parties and men following her about and she wasn’t more than twenty then. Happy used to stay up late at night, slip out of her room, so that she could see Marguerite come in from a dance. Sometimes I think that’s why Happy was never able to find the right man. She remembered those years and Marguerite the belle of the ball. This was several years before Marguerite met Claude and he simply swept her off her feet. He was much older, you know. I’m afraid he was married at the time”—Alice’s tone was defensive—“but Marguerite had to have him. Hell wouldn’t rest or heaven, either, until he was hers. I have to say, though it was a wrong way to start, theirs was a love match. Marguerite adored Claude until the day he died. I thought Marguerite was going to die, too. Oh, I had such a hard time with her. Happy came and helped. That was when Happy’s first marriage failed. But Happy knew Marguerite needed her. And Happy was fickle, I’m afraid. Always looking for a great romance. But she was nice and sweet to everyone. That’s why I knew something was wrong when she didn’t answer my knock. Happy would never ignore anyone. Not like Marguerite. If Marguerite doesn’t want to be bothered, she’ll look right through you. That’s why I opened the door. I shouldn’t have. It isn’t right to open someone’s door without an invitation.” Her tone was prim. “But I opened it.” Her eyes closed. She gave a little moan. “Oh, Happy. I remember when I first met her.” Tears edged from beneath those tightly closed lashes. “She was fourteen and she’d stay close to me when Marguerite was too busy for her. She was like a little sister to me.” There was a lifetime of love in her voice.

  Her eyes snapped open, wide and strained. “I opened the door. Oh God, so much blood.”

  Annie drew her breath in sharply, seeing in her mind the bright crimson splash of blood.

  Alice pressed her hands against her cheeks. “I don’t know how long I stood there. It seemed hours and hours. The sun was spilling in through the windows, pouring over Happy. She was slumped on the sofa, beaten down on the sofa, her poor head all broken and bloody. Blood everywhere, on her head and face and arms and dress, on the cushions, on the floor. Everywhere.” Alice shuddered. “I closed the door and I went to find Wayne. I asked him to call the police.” Just for an instant, her face thinned. “He had to look for himself, of course. Men are such fools. As if I didn’t know what I had seen. But it didn’t matter. I knew he would get the police when he saw. I went to Rachel’s room. She has a funny little nook on the third floor.” She lifted anguished eyes to Annie. “I tried to keep her there.”

  Annie understood and felt a curl of horror.

  “I told her she mustn’t go down there.” Alice’s voice rose. “She pushed past me and we struggled and she ran down the stairs and to Happy’s door. Wayne caught her and held her. He picked her up and carried her up to her room. I locked Happy’s door. When I went back to Rachel’s room, she wouldn’t let me in. Then the police came and they hunted for Mr. Laurance and no one could find him.”

  Annie couldn’t see the cause and effect. “Why did they hunt for him? Did you tell them you’d seen him at Happy’s door?”

  “I haven’t been interviewed by the police yet. You see, there’s not been time.” She brushed back a strand of dark red hair. “Wayne called the police. They came and everyone gathered in the hall, everyone except Rachel. Oh, Joan wasn’t there. I guess she was in the garden. It was all very confusing. She came in a little later and found us there and one of the policemen heard her say that Mr. Laurance went out in the rowboat. He wanted to know who Mr. Laurance was, and when he learned that he’d been married to Happy, he got all excited and he went to the stairs and yelled up. An ambulance came and more cars and they sent a policeman down to the dock. Terry was looking out the window, he kept a watch, and he saw your motorboat arrive.”

  They’d all streamed down to the dock, everyone except Marguerite and Rachel. Rachel was still locked in her room. As for Marguerite, it wasn’t hard to imagine that she never permitted herself to be part of a crowd scene. She’d waited and, God knew, she’d timed her arrival perfectly if her intent was to increase police suspicion of Pudge.

  As for Pudge, Annie couldn’t imagine, short of a confession, what he could possibly have done to make his situation worse. But for the moment, as much as she wanted to help him, as much as she hoped she and Max could help him, he had to take second place now to Rachel.

  Alice’s report made it clear that the situation was still fluid when she and Max and Pudge reached the dock. There had scarcely been time for Chief Garrett to look at the crime scene, get the names of those on the scene, and discover that the victim’s ex-husband w
as missing. So Garrett hadn’t interviewed anyone yet.

  “The police will talk to everyone.” Annie looked at Alice.

  There was a moment of silence. Alice stared toward the house, her face uncertain and troubled. She touched her fingers to her mouth. Slowly, her expression hardened. She gave a resolute nod. “Yes, they will talk to me, won’t they? I found her. I shall simply tell them the truth. Marguerite asked me to invite Happy to breakfast, so I went to her suite and knocked on the door. When she didn’t answer…” Alice ignored Annie’s startled face. “Come now, I must get to the house.”

  Alice turned and started up the path, walking with surprising speed.

  Annie followed, questions bubbling in her mind. She didn’t understand. Did this mean that Alice had no intention of telling the police that she had seen Pudge come out of Happy’s room? Why should Alice protect Pudge? Alice had no reason to care about Pudge. Oh, she may well have liked him. Annie wouldn’t be surprised to learn that her father made friends wherever he went. He was a man of charm and good humor. But all the charm in the world couldn’t outweigh Alice’s affection for Happy. Annie wanted to grab Alice’s arm, stop her, be sure she’d understood. But that was too great a gamble. Asking Alice, putting into words the unspoken promise of silence, could prompt a swift denial, cause Alice to divulge all she had seen.

  Alice hurried up the curving steps at the south end of the veranda. She yanked open a French door, held it for Annie. They stepped into a narrow room that ended in a dark tangle of banana trees, thick vines, hibiscus and azaleas. The sweet scent of wisteria and the deep smell of rich earth cloyed the air. The room—it looked more like a ship’s bar—might have been charming in a flamboyant fashion except for its occupants. Annie had seen more animation in an international flight lounge after a seven-hour delay.

  Everyone was there except for Marguerite and Rachel. Red-faced Terry hunched on a barstool, his back to the room, but the mirror reflected his watchful eyes, moving slowly from face to face in the mirror. Wayne slouched in a wicker chair, bearded chin on his hand. Donna paced like a caged lioness. Joan, clippers in hand, bent over a low hedge, her back to the others. But her eyes slid toward Annie and Alice. A plump middle-aged woman with curly black hair stood still as a statue by a door at the far end of the bar, twisting a dish towel in her hand. She wore dark slacks and a bright pink blouse under a too-big white apron. She wasn’t a family member, as far as Annie knew. The apron suggested she might be part of the domestic staff.

  The only sound, other than the snip of Joan’s clippers, was Max on his cell phone. Max and Pudge stood by themselves near the archway. “…okay, Johnny Joe. We’ll expect you. Thanks.” Max clicked off the phone, nodded reassuringly at Annie. Pudge, his face bleak, simply stood there, not looking at anyone. The irregular splotch on his slacks was almost dry.

  Patrolman Lou Pirelli blocked the archway leading to the front of the house. He noted Annie, whom he knew as he knew almost everyone on the island, but his noncommittal cop expression didn’t alter. “Captain Garrett has asked everyone to wait here.” He had a pleasant tenor voice, pleasant but firm.

  Annie didn’t hesitate. She walked up to him. “Lou, I’ve got to go upstairs. My little sister’s locked in her room. It’s her mother who was killed. Lou, she saw the body.”

  Pirelli’s smooth round young face lost its veneer of blankness. His eyes darkened. So Lou had seen that room. “So much blood,” Alice had said.

  “We’ve got to make sure Rachel’s all right. She’s just a kid, Lou.” Annie remembered that Lou Pirelli had a houseful of little sisters with great mops of black curls and laughing eyes.

  Pirelli tugged a palm-size radio transmitter from his shirt pocket. “Captain, Pirelli here. Maintaining watch in terrace room as instructed. Request from Annie Darling to speak with younger sister. Sister is apparently the daughter”—Pirelli was puzzled, glancing at Annie—“of the victim. According to Annie Darling, her sister observed body and has since been locked in her room.” He held the radio to his ear, nodded several times. “Yes, sir.”

  Annie moved to step past him.

  Pirelli blocked her way. “Officer Cameron will escort you upstairs. He’s on his way.”

  “I must go to Miss Dumaney.” Alice Schiller was insistent. “She’s upset. She won’t understand why I haven’t come to her.”

  Pirelli’s round face didn’t look quite so bland. “Miss Dumaney refused to remain here with the others. Captain Garrett let her go upstairs.”

  Annie imagined that had been a remarkable scene.

  Pirelli pointed at a white wicker chair. “Everyone else has to stay here. Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Relax, Alice.” Terry turned to face the room, his red face sardonic. “Marguerite’s on a roll.”

  Alice whirled toward him, her face bleak. “It isn’t funny, Terry.”

  His features hardened. “I’m not laughing. But this time you can’t give madame a massage and a hot toddy and make everything right. You think I’m not sorry about Happy? Goddamn, she was the nicest person in this goddamn house. Marguerite’s having a hell of a time. One bloody scene after another. But Happy’s dead.”

  “We’re all sorry, Terry.” Wayne’s cold blue eyes strayed toward Pudge. “Marguerite has to handle it her way. Leave Alice alone.”

  “I have to go to Marguerite.” Alice turned back to Pirelli.

  Pirelli shook his head, pointed again at the chair.

  Footsteps sounded behind Pirelli. Big Billy Cameron loomed in the archway. He jerked his head at Annie.

  Annie slipped past Pirelli, glad to leave the room behind, the room that smelled like moisture and dirt, the room that pulsed with uneasiness. As she followed Billy, their footsteps echoing on the flagstone floor, she steeled herself for what was to come.

  Fourteen

  THE ARCHWAY FROM the terrace room led to the over-furnished formal reception area where she and Max had first met Marguerite Dumaney and her dinner guests on Wednesday night. Annie glanced to her left, where another archway opened into the dining room. Her mind juggled locations. The tropical garden at the north end of the terrace room also bounded the west end of the dining area.

  Billy didn’t spare a glance at the medieval tapestries or the plush furniture with its intricately carved scrolls and seashells and acanthus leaves or at the flocked Christmas trees at either end of the dais. He headed straight for the stairway. The double-wide curving staircase was dramatic, with black walnut balusters and railing and stone steps. Fresh pine garlands wound around the railing. The steps curved out of sight, hidden behind a stucco shell emblazoned with painted starfish and seashells and dolphins. Annie and Billy started up the stairs.

  A stentorian rumble sounded above. The loud voice, a bulldog growl that had terrorized nurses for a half century, reverberated in the second-floor hallway. “…massive trauma. Autopsy won’t show anything different. Somebody bashed the hell out of her, Pete. Struck, oh, I’d guess ten times, maybe fifteen, with something long and narrow.”

  Billy held out an arm to block Annie’s climb. “Better wait a minute,” he muttered.

  Annie understood. She recognized that voice, too. Horace Burford wore a lot of medical hats on the island. He was chief of staff at the hospital as well as medical examiner. It was always smart to stay out of Burford’s path when he bellowed. He hated to lose a patient, and he hated a death that shouldn’t have happened.

  Burford thudded around the curve, head thrust forward like a charging bull, his big-cheeked face distended in a scowl. His dark blue suit was a little too tight and shiny from wear. He’d loosened his tie, and his shirt was open at the neck.

  Pete Garrett was right behind him. “Like what, sir?”

  A choleric flush stained Burford’s bulging cheeks. “I’m not a bloody mind reader. Bigger than a crowbar, smaller than a two-by-four.” He jolted to a stop just above Annie. He twisted his head to peer up at Garrett. “You didn’t find a weapon? It’d be damn bloody.” He did
n’t give Garrett time to answer. “No weapon. Huh. Okay, look for something on the order of a broom handle. A bloody broom handle.” He took two more steps, stopped again. “Blood. There’d be a hell of a lot. Spurts. Look for somebody pretty well drenched.”

  Annie didn’t like the picture in her mind, but she could have hugged Burford. Yes, Pudge had a smear of blood on his slacks but that was all, a single smear. It was the first positive fact she’d learned that might help him. Look for somebody pretty well drenched. But who would it be? No one had shown any evidence of blood. Had there been time for the murderer to bathe, discard stained clothes? Was she wrong in assuming that whoever killed Happy had been a member of the household? Had anyone checked to see whether an intruder could have reached her room? Surely Pete Garrett would consider all of these possibilities.

  Burford continued to look up toward Garrett. “You better get a specialist from the state lab to analyze the stains. From what I saw, I’d say she was seated, murderer standing, blows delivered by the right hand. Anyway, if you find the weapon I can give you a better idea.” He jerked around, noticed Annie and Billy, gave a short nod and thudded past them.

  Garrett called after him. “Can you estimate—”

  Burford shouted over his shoulder. “A guess. Rigor mortis well advanced. Maybe around midnight, maybe earlier. Hell, maybe later.” Burford reached the base of the stairs and plunged toward the front door.

  Midnight! Alice Schiller saw Pudge come out of Happy’s room this morning. Happy had been dead for hours. It didn’t mean a thing that Pudge ran through the garden. Except why didn’t he rouse the house? What was he carrying? Why did he run away? But Annie moved up the steps, buoyed by relief. Happy had been dead for hours!

  Garrett was waiting at the top of the stairs. He shot an impatient glance at Annie. “What’s this about a sister? What sister?”

  “Rachel Van Meer. She’s Happy’s daughter and my father’s stepdaughter. My stepsister.” Annie pointed up the stairs. “She’s locked in her room. Up on the third floor. Pete, she saw her mother’s body.”