Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “Black magic,” Annie murmured. That was as good a name as any for trifling with the supernatural. Rachel went right past Swanson’s New Age euphemism, the Golden Path.

  “Anyway,” Rachel said huskily, “Mom was really upset. Everybody was.”

  Except for Swanson, of course. Everyone else at that dinner had indeed been upset, including Happy Laurance. That was why, when Vince called, Annie had immediately assumed the victim was Marguerite Dumaney. Instead, Marguerite’s charming, good-humored sister lay dead. Annie still felt astonished. Happy, a murder victim?

  Garrett looked toward Annie and Max.

  Annie said quickly, “Rachel’s right. Marguerite made it clear. Apparently there’s a lot of money. She inherited from her father plus she was married to Claude Ladson, a movie producer. He left his fortune to her, not to his children.”

  “His children?” Garrett looked puzzled.

  “Marguerite’s stepchildren,” Max explained. “Wayne Ladson, Terry Ladson, Mrs. Farrell.”

  Annie nodded. “They were going to be out in the cold. Along with Happy Laurance.”

  “Will be out in the cold,” Max amended. “I doubt that Marguerite has changed her mind.”

  “Mom wasn’t going to let it happen.” Rachel sounded utterly positive. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Mom was real upset. I tried to talk to her about—” She broke off, her eyes sliding away from Garrett.

  Annie understood. Rachel didn’t want to tell Garrett about her quarrel with her mother and her fight to be free to see Mike.

  “You tried to talk to her?” Garrett said quickly. “When?”

  “Last night. After dinner. She was in the gazebo.” Rachel clung to the back of a seat. “She told me to go away, that she’d deal with me later, that she had to think what to do. I asked her what she was talking about, she looked so worried and upset. She said, ‘It’s Aunt Rita. I’ve got to stop that man from taking all her money. I can do it. I’m not going to let him get away with it. It’s robbery, that’s all it is. He’s a thief. Well, I know what to do. I’m going to talk to him and when I finish, he’ll know it’s no use. I can do that. I’ve got papers to prove it and I’m going to put them in a safe place. Or I could…’Then she shook her head and looked even more upset. ‘Oh, I don’t know which way to go. If I go to him, Marguerite will never forgive me. But I have to decide.’ She nodded her head very hard. ‘I will decide tonight.’ She hugged me and said she was sorry about…”—Rachel’s eyes slid toward Annie—“about the afternoon—”

  Annie remembered the swift movement of Happy’s arm and Rachel’s red cheek.

  “—and she told me to run on, that we’d talk tomorrow. She said she’d made up her mind, that it wasn’t fair to Wayne and Terry and Donna for Marguerite to throw away all of Claude’s money. She hugged me and said everything would be all right tomorrow.” Rachel’s thin face was drawn by misery and anger. “That man did it. He killed Mom.”

  Annie tried to picture a confrontation between Happy and Dr. Swanson, Happy threatening him. Would he attack her unless he knew where the papers were? Happy had told Rachel she was going to put them in a safe place. Would Happy have brought them out at such a meeting? Surely not. Happy’s room, from Annie’s brief glance, showed no traces of a search.

  “You’ve got to find the papers.” Rachel’s eyes burned with intensity.

  “There will be a careful search of your mother’s belongings. Let me get this straight….” As Garrett sorted out the relationships and the money and who Swanson was and where he could be found, Annie considered the possibilities. Did Happy call Swanson, threaten him? Was the call, if it was made, sufficient to alarm him into deciding to kill Happy? But how did he get into the house?

  “…lots and lots of money—”

  Annie interrupted Rachel. “How would Swanson get inside the house?”

  Rachel waved that away. “Maybe Aunt Rita gave him a key. Or maybe Mother let him in.”

  “At midnight?” Annie asked.

  “Midnight?” Rachel’s voice was thin. “Was that when—” She broke off, stared at the floor.

  Garrett looked at her sharply. “Where were you at midnight?”

  Rachel blinked. Her pale face was blank. “Midnight? I was in bed.”

  Garrett said nothing, simply waited. His manner remained courteous, but his bright blue eyes were skeptical.

  The silence expanded. Annie tried to keep her own face blank, but she was afraid that Rachel was lying.

  Rachel’s eyes moved uneasily around the room, but she wasn’t looking at them. She was figuring and thinking—and scared.

  “I see.” Garrett’s tone was neutral. His eyes dropped to his notes. “About the sweater Mr. Laurance saw…do you have a blue sweater?”

  “No.” She sounded puzzled. “Maybe it was someone else’s sweater.”

  Garrett closed his notebook. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Laurance—”

  “Van Meer,” Rachel interrupted. “I’m Rachel Van Meer. Pudge is my stepfather.”

  Garrett opened his notebook, wrote swiftly. “We will take a formal statement later.”

  He was turning to go when brisk steps sounded in the hallway.

  Billy Cameron poked his head inside. “Captain, we got the search warrant and started on the Laurance room. You’d better come.”

  As Garrett and Billy headed for the stairs, Rachel whispered, “What do they mean? Are they talking about Pudge’s room?”

  Annie felt her heart thud. She nodded and headed for the stairs. If Garrett saw them, he’d send them away. She looked over her shoulder, held a finger to her lips, moved softly down the steps, Rachel and Max behind her.

  The second-floor hallway was empty. The door to Pudge’s room was open. Easing across the hall, she peered inside.

  There was nothing remarkable about the furnishings, a guest room for a man, twin beds with brown and black plaid spreads and matching drapes, a plain mahogany dresser, television, bookcase, adjoining bath. The open closet door revealed a half dozen hangers with shirts and slacks. Annie’s gaze stopped at the open suitcase on the bed.

  Garrett bent close to the suitcase.

  Billy concluded, “I came for you as soon as I opened it.”

  “Get pictures, Billy. Tag the suitcase and the coat. Send it all to the lab.” Garrett stepped back from the bed, his eyes still on the open suitcase. “That’s what the murderer wore.”

  Bunched inside the suitcase was a yellow slicker, its surface mottled with dried blood, streaks and splotches of dark maroon.

  Fingers clamped onto Annie’s arm. “That’s my raincoat. That’s mine!”

  Garrett jerked around at Rachel’s piercing whisper. Irritation tightened the lines around his eyes and mouth until he looked at Rachel.

  Rachel held on to Annie for support. She wavered on her feet, her face ashen.

  “Get her out of here. Go back upstairs, all of you. Wait in that theater.” Garrett was on his way to the door.

  Annie grabbed Rachel, turned her away. She and Max supported Rachel between them as they slowly climbed the steps. On the third floor, Rachel stopped. “I don’t want to go up there. I hate that place.”

  “We can wait in your room,” Annie said quickly. She glanced at Max, but his head was turned as he looked down the stairs and listened.

  Rachel leaned against the wall. She sucked in deep breaths and her color improved. “How did he get my raincoat?” She looked like a terrified colt, her eyes huge and staring. “My raincoat. It makes it look like I killed Mom.” Her voice shook.

  Annie reached out, grabbed her hand.

  Max turned from the stairwell, though he still had a listening look. “Where do you keep your raincoat?”

  Some of the panic eased out of Rachel’s eyes. “Downstairs, in a closet off the main entrance. Everybody keeps their coats and stuff there. Sure. Anybody could have gotten it. He could have snuck in there and got my slicker.”

  Annie was having a hard time p
icturing Dr. Emory Swanson stealthily pilfering a raincoat, then slipping up the stairs to Happy’s room. What did he say to Happy when he walked in on a chilly but dry December night carrying a bright yellow rain slicker? If he (or anyone else) brought the slicker, that argued premeditation. A poker grabbed up in haste suggested an argument ending in unplanned violence. But the bloody slicker had to be explained.

  Was the sweater stained? Annie didn’t like the question, but she couldn’t ignore it. There had to be an urgent reason for Pudge to carry the sweater away. Was it really a sweater he was trying to hide? Was that a lie and had he grabbed up the raincoat? But if he ran with the poker and the afghan, why put the raincoat in his suitcase?

  Clearly, Pudge had feared that Rachel was the murderer. Rachel could be guilty. There was no doubt that Rachel was distraught, but Rachel surely would be distraught if she’d argued with her mother and lost control and snatched up a poker and battered her to death. But if the killer wore the raincoat, the murder had to have been planned. Annie could understand a sudden fury, a loss of control, but she could not imagine Rachel as a careful, conniving, cold-blooded killer.

  It seemed to Annie that everything hinged on the raincoat.

  Or had Pudge told the truth and Rachel lied? Did she have a blue sweater? Could that be proved? Could she have worn the raincoat and this morning hidden it in Pudge’s suitcase? But Rachel would never endanger Pudge. Would she?

  Annie looked at Rachel, huddled against the wall, her face gray, her eyes pools of misery. Annie’s heart ached. She reached out a hand, but before she could speak, Max moved swiftly toward Rachel.

  “Is there another way downstairs?” He spoke softly. “Besides the main stairs? I want to see what Garrett’s going to do.”

  Rachel pointed down the long hallway. “There are back stairs that go down to the kitchen. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  As they passed closed doors, Rachel murmured, “That’s Wayne’s room. The first one on the right. The next one is a guest bedroom where Donna’s staying. Those big double doors”—she pointed to her left—“are Aunt Rita’s rooms. Alice is next to her.”

  At the end of the hall, she opened a door to uncarpeted stairs. They clattered down into a service porch. Rachel opened the door into a long, bright kitchen that smelled of good strong coffee and fresh pastries. Rachel led them across the kitchen into a breakfast room.

  Max looked toward an archway into the huge reception area. “We can go through there to the main hall, can’t we?”

  “Sure.” But Rachel had taken only a couple of steps when Chief Garrett strode purposefully through the far end of the reception area.

  “He’s going to the terrace room,” Rachel whispered. “Come this way. We can go through the jungle.” Rachel darted up a path between huge banana plants.

  Annie followed, squinting in the dimness. A shrill scream sounded near her shoulder. Annie jerked her head and looked into currant-dark eyes. Cobalt blue and crimson feathers bristled as the parrot flapped its wings. The bird made no effort to fly. A tether was hooked on one orange leg.

  “Shh, Godfrey.” Rachel waved her hand at him. “We’re almost there,” she whispered to Annie and Max. She moved ahead. Moisture clung to ferns and fronds. The smell of dirt mingled with the heavy scent of sweet blossoms. They reached the north end of the terrace room just as Chief Garrett came through the archway from the reception room.

  Donna whirled from a window to glare at Garrett. Her fox-sharp face looked old and raddled. “Officer, I demand to be released from this absurd detention. I have no idea what happened this morning, but I am definitely not involved. I am willing to give a statement, but I refuse to be treated like a common criminal.”

  Terry came to his feet. “My sister damn well has a point, man. What’s going on here? I haven’t even had breakfast.”

  Alice sped toward Garrett. “Miss Dumaney must be seen to. I must go to her.”

  Joan brushed a hand through her wispy gray hair. “I have no experience in police matters, but it does appear that this investigation lacks direction.”

  Only Wayne remained calm, slouched on a wicker divan, arms folded behind his head, feet crossed. He watched with cool detachment.

  Garrett ignored them. He walked directly to the bar, where Pudge sat on a red leather-topped stool, his elbow propped on the bar, his chin in his hand. In the mirror, his face looked old, deep lines splaying from sunken eyes and tight lips.

  “Mr. Laurance.” Garrett was staring into the mirror. “I’m taking you into custody. I’ll ask you to come with me.” Garrett jerked his head toward the archway.

  Pudge blinked in surprise. “Me? Why? I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Max squeezed Annie’s arm. “I’d better go with them and get in touch with Johnny Joe.”

  Garrett was brisk. “Interfering with an investigation, tampering with evidence, giving false information. That’s enough for a start, Mr. Laurance. When you are represented by counsel, we will have a formal interrogation. Come this way.”

  Pudge called out, “Rachel—”

  “That’s enough,” Garrett said sharply.

  Pudge ignored Garrett. “Annie, take care of Rachel.”

  “Let’s go, Mr. Laurance.” Once again Garrett’s hand rested on his holster.

  Pudge shrugged and turned to leave.

  Fear swept Annie, making it hard to breathe. Pudge didn’t know about the bloody raincoat found in his suitcase. That was why Garrett was taking him into custody. There was simply too much involving Pudge: the missing weapon, his flight in the rowboat, his quarrels with Happy, his confession. The police would test his clothes and find traces of Happy’s blood on his slacks. There was fact after damning fact.

  In Pudge’s defense, what could be said? He was trying to protect Rachel so he grabbed up a bloody poker and ran with it. As for the quarrels with Happy, would he admit they were on Rachel’s behalf? Annie was afraid he wouldn’t. If he refused to explain, the police would draw their own conclusions. As for his confession, he’d admitted it was false, and obviously—at least to Annie—he’d had no idea that Happy’s death occurred hours before he entered her room. That, in the eyes of the police, could be seen as a clever bluff.

  Garrett paused in the archway. “Ladies and gentlemen, I regret the inconvenience to the household. I will appreciate your further cooperation. Each of you will be interviewed as soon as possible by Officer Cameron. Until then, it will be necessary for everyone to remain here.”

  Annie carried the tray down the crushed-oyster-shell path. It was such a relief to be out of the house with its strained silences and restless occupants. After Billy Cameron completed the interviews, the members of the Ladson family wandered aimlessly, avoiding solitude. Marguerite, finally attended by Alice, remained sequestered in her quarters.

  Rachel waited on the sunny gazebo steps, chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs. It was one of the island’s sparkling December days, the temperature right at sixty, the chalk-blue sky crisp as freshly starched oxford cloth.

  Annie dropped down beside Rachel, put the tray between them. The wooden step held a faint warmth from the thin sunshine. Annie unwrapped ham sandwiches, opened a two-sided plastic container with apple slices and wedges of Gouda.

  Rachel didn’t look at the food.

  Annie understood, but Rachel needed to eat. Annie unwrapped two big dill pickles and unsnapped a cup filled to the brim with yogurt-covered raisins. Annie rattled the raisins. “The cook said you love these. She said you like mustard, not mayonnaise, on your sandwich, and rye bread. And spicy chips. She fixed a thermos of hot chocolate.” Annie held out a blue plastic plate and a napkin. “Here, Rachel, she went to a lot of effort.”

  Rachel sat up straight and took the plate and napkin. “Sookie’s nice.” She poured a mound of the white candied fruit beside the sandwich.

  “Sookie?” Annie took a big bite of her sandwich. She was ravenous. Breakfast seemed several eons past.

  Absen
tly, Rachel popped a half dozen of the raisins in her mouth. “Sue Kay. But Pam calls her Sookie. Pam’s her daughter. She’s a cheerleader and a merit scholar. On the weekends, she works in the kitchen at Parotti’s. She wants to be a chef. A famous chef. She’s going to go to a culinary school.”

  Annie leaned back against the step, enjoying the sun and the warmth, the food and the faint touches of color in Rachel’s face. Annie wished they could keep on talking about Sookie and Pam and cooking school. The easy conversation built a cocoon of normalcy and Rachel slowly began to eat.

  By the time Annie poured them each a cup of hot chocolate, Rachel had finished her sandwich and was rolling out the last few raisins on her palm.

  Rachel broke the spell. She neatly folded her napkin, placed it and the plate on the tray. She pushed against her temple as if her head ached. “Annie, when will Pudge come home?”

  The onshore breeze was freshening. The glossy leaves in a nearby magnolia rattled like hurried footsteps. Spanish moss in the live oaks swayed. In the inlet, Terry’s big cabin cruiser rose and fell. Far out in the channel, three motorboats spaced about twenty yards apart moved slowly in apparent concert. One paused and a man in back pulled up a net, scanned the contents, tossed it back again.

  At the Dumaney dock, the rowboat was gone but Annie and Max’s motorboat was still tied to the dock. Annie realized Max must have ridden with Pudge and that she could take the boat home and get a car. She realized, too, that the missing rowboat had likely been taken by the police for examination. Would there be traces of Happy’s blood in the boat? Quite possibly, and that would be another fact lined up against Pudge.

  “Annie?” Rachel’s tone was puzzled. “Pudge’ll be home pretty soon, won’t he?”

  “That depends.” Annie tried to sound reassuring. “Captain Garrett will want to know where Pudge threw that stuff away.” And more, much more.

  “Oh.” Rachel looked puzzled. “But that’s not the main thing. When will he arrest that man?”

  Annie didn’t have any trouble following Rachel’s thoughts. No wonder Rachel appeared relaxed. She thought the murder was solved when she told Garrett about Swanson, and she obviously had no idea of Pudge’s real situation.