Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Joan glared at her ex-husband. “You are so infuriating, Wayne. You’re so supercilious. Didn’t you hear what Rachel said? Happy was ‘going to put the papers in a safe place.’ She intended to do so. She hadn’t done it yet. So whatever papers she had were probably in her room and they’ve now been destroyed.”

  Alice briefly pressed thin hands against her temples. “Happy’s words can as easily be interpreted that she had already set up a meeting with her murderer, but that she fully intended to put the papers in a safe place before that meeting took place.”

  Terry wrinkled his nose. “This is all so much bullshit. How could Happy have obtained any kind of papers that would compromise Swanson? I don’t buy it.”

  Rachel jounced on the barstool. “Mom said so. She meant it.”

  Donna smoothed her skirt. “It can’t do any harm to look. If we can find something about that man…” Her tone was venomous.

  “We’ll give it a hell of a try.” Wayne’s gaze was steely.

  If Emory Swanson was as psychic as he claimed, he should at this moment have been reeling from a bombardment of inimical thought waves. Every face in the room radiated hostility. Rachel’s dark eyes burned with hatred. Alice Schiller looked cruelly triumphant. Terry grinned, an ugly, savoring grin. Joan nodded vehemently, her wispy hair wobbling. “We have to stop him.”

  Wayne looked at each in turn. “We’re agreed, then. Donna, you take the reception area. Joan, you check out the jungle room. Terry, look in the empty guest bedrooms. Alice—”

  The triumphant glitter in Alice’s eyes faded. She looked uncertain. “Wayne, I will help, but it will have to be later. Marguerite needs me. She still isn’t feeling well. I was up with her most of the night—”

  Annie looked at Alice sharply. So far as Annie knew, Garrett had yet to reveal the likely time of the murder. The only people who knew were, of course, the police and Annie, who had overheard Burford’s comments, and Rachel and Pudge and Max. That piece of information could be important. If Alice had been awake at midnight last night, perhaps she may have seen or heard something that would help. But this wasn’t the moment to ask.

  “—and now she’s distraught over Happy’s death. I must go up to her. And”—she took a deep breath—“I must warn you that Marguerite has summoned Dr. Swanson. There will be a séance tonight in the theater at eight o’clock.” Alice ignored the shocked cries. “There’s no point in objecting. Marguerite’s made up her mind. I would advise all of you to attend. It will give us an opportunity to observe Swanson’s demeanor. And now”—her voice shook a little—“Rachel and I must go upstairs.” She reached out, took Rachel’s hand. “Father Cooley is on his way to discuss plans for Happy’s service.”

  Annie lingered uncertainly near the coffee bar in the terrace room. She’d hated seeing the wash of pain over Rachel’s face, but there was nothing Annie could do to help, and certainly she couldn’t intrude in this somber family conclave. There was a moment of silence after Rachel’s and Alice’s departure, then the others scattered to their search sites, a tribute both to Wayne’s generalship and to the relief of engaging in activity that could possibly foil Dr. Emory Swanson.

  Until Rachel came downstairs, Annie was on her own. She debated going home long enough to pack an overnight bag, but that could wait until later. Instead, she looked vaguely around, realized her purse with a pen and small pad was in the trunk of her car. She stepped behind the bar, rummaged through some drawers and found a white notepad and a pencil.

  Settling at the card table, she tapped the pencil on the table and then began to write:

  Possible suspects in the murder of Happy Laurance:

  1. Dr. Emory Swanson. Motive: To prevent Happy from providing Marguerite Dumaney with evidence of wrongdoing by Swanson.

  2. Rachel Van Meer. Motive: Anger over her mother’s efforts to bar her from seeing Mike Hernandez.

  3. Mike Hernandez. Motive: Revenge and/or anger over Happy’s opposition to his relationship with Rachel.

  4. Pudge Laurance. Motive: Quarrel with Happy over treatment of Rachel.

  Murder would presuppose escalation of Pudge and Happy’s argument beyond any reasonable bounds. Or deep-seated anger festering since their divorce. Annie thought anyone should be able to tell that Pudge did not have a vindictive nature, but Garrett would be prejudiced by the reports of Pudge and Happy’s quarrels.

  Other suspects by reason of being in proximity to the crime scene:

  1. Marguerite Dumaney. Motive: Quarrel over disposition of her estate.

  2. Wayne Ladson. Motive: None apparent.

  3. Terry Ladson. Motive: None apparent.

  4. Donna Ladson Farrell. Motive: None apparent.

  5. Joan Ladson. Motive: None apparent.

  The summing up left Annie depressed. Once again it seemed clear that the only real motives for the murder were confined to that first short list. The others in the house seemed not to have any reason to be angry with Happy. Annie was sure that was how the case would appear to Chief Garrett. That didn’t mean there might not be reasons none of them knew about.

  What did she need to find out?

  1. More about Happy. What did Happy do on her last day? Where did she go? Who did she talk to?

  2. Where was everyone at midnight? Ask Alice what time she was with Marguerite. This could be important. After all, Happy and Marguerite disagreed bitterly about Marguerite’s plans to give her estate to Swanson.

  Annie put a little asterisk and added: But it was Happy who died, not Marguerite. The plans for the money remain unchanged.

  3. Did anyone else see a light near the maze last night? It would be nice to confirm Mike’s statement. His report could be nothing more than an effort to make it appear someone else was in the garden.

  4. Has Happy’s car been checked?

  Annie had a penchant for tossing odd objects in her trunk. Residing therein at the moment were a carefully boxed porcelain cake server, a catnip-scented Christmas stocking, a pair of airline tickets to Bermuda (Wouldn’t Max be surprised!), a manuscript (The Katydid Killer) thrust on her by a hopeful writer despite Annie’s protestations that she merely sold books, she didn’t publish them—

  A shriek erupted in the jungle.

  Annie stuffed the notepad in her sweater pocket and bolted toward the rock path between the big rubber trees.

  As Max chopped up a slice of cooked tenderloin steak and dropped the bits into Dorothy L.’s plastic bowl, he studied Annie’s note. Of course, he’d seen her since she’d written it, but they’d had little chance to talk. Her directions were clear: Check with Ingrid. She’s going to round up all the gossip about Swanson. If the papers exist, there has to be a basis for them. Oh Max, I’m so worried.

  Dorothy L. ate and purred appreciatively.

  He reached down and stroked her lustrous fur. If Annie was worried then, she must surely be discouraged now. The discovery of Rachel’s field hockey stick made it very likely that the teenager’s arrest was imminent.

  Max glanced at the clock. It was almost four in the afternoon and he hadn’t had lunch, which accounted for the slight throbbing in his head. He swiftly fixed a thick sandwich of tenderloin with horseradish and mustard. He poured a glass of milk and ate standing at the counter, his face furrowed.

  Four o’clock on Friday afternoon. Pudge was in jail. Although Max didn’t think the police chief worried overly about community pressure, certainly the quick arrest would defuse fear on the island. It would also give Garrett time to put together his case and decide when to arrest Rachel. Max felt certain it was a matter of when, not whether.

  Max gobbled the last bite, took his glass to the sink to rinse. Garrett might not feel pressure. Max did. Annie was counting on him to figure out what Happy Laurance could possibly have known that led to murder.

  Unfortunately, Max wasn’t sure he believed Rachel. Or, if Rachel was telling the truth about the conversation with her mother, Max wasn’t at all sure whether the papers had any connection to
Happy’s murder. Dammit, they needed to know a lot more about Happy’s frame of mind the last few days. Something more than the fact that she’d quarreled with both Pudge and Rachel. There had to be something more than that! Well, as Rachel had pointed out and as Annie and Max knew from the dinner at the Dumaney house, Happy certainly was upset about Marguerite’s plan to funnel a vast amount of money to Emory Swanson and his Golden Path.

  Max strode swiftly toward the door. At the moment, he had no idea how Happy might have discovered information detrimental to Swanson.

  As the Ferrari zoomed up the dusty road, Max thought about motives and fervently hoped that Marguerite’s money truly was the reason for Happy’s murder. If it wasn’t, the list of suspects narrowed to Rachel, Pudge and Mike.

  The parrot cackled, “Gotcha. Gotcha.” His dark eyes glittered. Annie wondered if it was anthropomorphic to attribute malice to a bird.

  Joan lifted a shaking hand. “That odious creature. He pecked me!” She gingerly felt her scalp. “I don’t think it broke the skin.”

  “I’ll look,” Annie offered. She skirted far enough from the parrot’s perch to escape attack and stood on tiptoe, parting Joan’s wispy graying hair. “No. It’s okay.”

  Joan glared at the bird. “I’ve always loathed him. Wayne thinks he’s funny. Sometimes he says the most disgusting things.”

  As if on cue, the bird rattled words like pellets: “Fatoldbitch, fatoldbitch.”

  Joan’s face flamed.

  Annie said hurriedly, “They say parrots are simply programmed, that phrases recur on a pattern.” She’d made it up on the spot, but she was pleased to see that some of the anger eased out of Joan’s plump face.

  “Well, I suppose they can’t help what people have taught them. Anyway”—she looked critically at her hands and frowned—“I need to wash up. Everything’s really in an advanced state of rot. There’s entirely too much water standing in all the pots. I can’t imagine who’s in charge. I’ll speak to Alice. But I don’t think Happy would put papers in here. Let’s try the terrace room.”

  Annie followed Joan to the bar.

  As Joan washed her hands, she looked critically around. “Not too many possibilities in here. After all, anyone could look through the magazines or open the drawers. Although…” She moved along the back wall, easing framed pictures far enough out to peer behind them. “Something thin could be taped…But there’s nothing here.” She worked from one side of the room to the other, checking under chairs, beneath plant stands.

  Annie perched on a barstool. “Did you talk to Happy yesterday?”

  Joan crouched in front of a sofa, ran her hand underneath. “No. But she’s been”—she paused, frowned—“it’s so hard to believe she’s dead! I got here on Tuesday night and she wasn’t herself. Now, you know Happy—”

  But Annie didn’t, hadn’t and now never would. She’d met Happy that one night, been greeted with kindness, then the next day been caught up in Happy’s anger with Rachel.

  “—always determined to look on the bright side. So damn chirpy. A June Cleaver clone. And she’d had enough happen in her life to know better! Divorced three times. But she wasn’t loose.” Joan pulled herself stiffly to her feet and scrutinized the hangings at the French door. “Not like that sister of hers.”

  “Marguerite?” Annie was surprised at the animosity in Joan’s voice. “I thought Marguerite was just married once, to Claude Ladson.”

  Joan’s face swung toward her, her eyes hot, her mouth twisted. “She took another woman’s husband! Claude was a married man with three children, but Marguerite had to have him, no matter what. Wayne told me it broke his mother’s heart to lose Claude. He always felt it killed her. Of course, now no one believes that people die of broken hearts. But I think they can. I’ve never understood why Wayne was always nice to Marguerite. Of course, they’ve all been nice to Marguerite since Claude left everything to her.” Her round face reddened in anger. “That was a crime. He should have left his money to his children. Look what’s happening now! All the money going to that horrible man! My children have a right to their share of their grandfather’s estate. Oh, I wish we knew what Happy had found out. Where can those papers be?” Her eyes swept hungrily over the room.

  Annie studied the driven, angry woman, fascinated and a little appalled to find so much passion beneath such an ordinary exterior, a mop of wispy graying hair, slightly bulging eyes, plump cheeks, lips with only a faint dash of pink. “Did you talk to Happy about Swanson?”

  Joan peered behind a bookcase. “No. Though I suppose that’s what she was nattering on about, complaining that she didn’t know what to do, that everything was so difficult, that she wished people would just do what they were supposed to do.” Joan pursed her lips. “I saw her slap Rachel, you know. I haven’t told the police.”

  Annie didn’t ask Joan’s intentions. Instead, she said briskly, “Did anything disturb your sleep last night? Around midnight?”

  Joan Ladson’s face was still, her stare measuring and thoughtful. “Midnight?” She turned away, peered inside a thin-necked vase. “No. Nothing at all. I slept very well.”

  “Max, will you take these special orders back to the office?” Ingrid pushed her glasses high on her nose. Her usually well-coiffed hair straggled beneath the Santa hat and her eyes were distracted. “Duane’s there. Tell him to get on the computer and try to get the books, though you’d think people would know better than to wait until a week before Christmas to order! But they don’t. He can bring you up to date on everything we’ve found out. I can’t leave the desk.” She turned to face a customer holding up a book. “Oh yes, ma’am, that’s Parnell Hall’s new series about the crossword puzzle lady. Yes, it’s very clever….”

  Max slipped away. This time last week Annie would have been ecstatic at the holiday bustle in Death on Demand. She would still be pleased, but at this moment the success of the store had to be far from her mind. The center aisle was crowded and chatter rose from the coffee bar. Max pushed the door to the storeroom.

  An irascible voice ordered, “Keep out. Don’t you see the damn—Oh hi, Max. You’d think people who purport to read could see the goddam sign on the door. ‘Keep Out.’ That’s what the goddam sign says, and I’ve been shooing them out of here like chickens running amuck.” Duane Webb heaved his stocky body up from his chair and pumped Max’s hand. Duane’s moon-shaped face, topped by a skimpy wreath of graying hair, had the stolidity of a grizzled goat, but his bright, light eyes shone with a hard, inquisitive, combative intelligence. He gestured at the stool next to the computer table. “Max, I’ve turned over every rock on the island. Your man’s too damn clever.”

  Max’s heart sank. He shut the door and realized he’d been counting on Ingrid and Duane. Especially Duane. Twenty years as a city editor had robbed him of all illusions, but created a mind that could sift cesspools and come up with facts nobody could contest. Duane was a much smarter investigator than Happy Laurance, and that made Rachel’s story of hidden papers suspect. How could Happy have discovered material dangerous to Swanson if Duane Webb was stumped?

  “Except”—Duane’s thin lips spread in a sharklike smile—“not quite clever enough.” He swung toward the computer, clicked a half dozen times on the mouse. “Take a look at this….”

  Twenty-one

  THE HALF DOZEN silver bracelets on each arm jangled as Donna Farrell pulled out the desk drawer and placed it on the floor. “Sometimes”—a lock of silver-blond hair fell forward as she bent to peer in the opening—“there’s a secret opening behind the drawer. Hmm. Yes, oh, it’s opening.” Her usually tart tone rose in excitement.

  Annie listened to the sound of scrabbling nails.

  “Oh damn. A splinter.” Donna yanked out her hand. Irritation emphasized the thin lines that bracketed her eyes and mouth. “Empty. Oh well, this whole thing’s a fool’s errand.” She whirled away from the desk. “There’s nothing of interest in here.” She waved her hand at the huge reception area. “Whe
n you look closely, there aren’t many places anyone could hope to hide papers. Have you had any luck?”

  Annie didn’t explain that she wasn’t part of the search party. She said vaguely, “Not yet.”

  Donna brushed dust from her silk skirt. “Well, there are no hidden memoirs, no steamy love letters, not a frigging thing of interest in this dusty room that should have been condemned before it was built.” She looked toward a wet bar. “I need a drink. How about you?”

  Donna’s heels clicked on the stone floor. She stepped behind the wet bar, clicked on a light. “Scotch? Gin? Rum?” She picked up a fifth of scotch and splashed a generous amount in a cut-glass tumbler. She poured in a token amount of water and took a deep drink. “Take your pick.” Donna wandered out from behind the wet bar.

  Annie found club soda, put ice in a glass and poured. No one had to go far to find a libation in this house, a wet bar here, a full bar in the terrace room.

  Donna sank gracefully into a high-backed rosewood chair with spiral turnings on each side of the densely flowered upholstery. The Elizabethan chair made her look petite, and its heavy darkness emphasized her fair hair and pale skin. She gazed disconsolately around the huge garish room. “How long do you suppose we have to hang around here? I didn’t count on murder for Christmas. I wish I’d stayed home.” Another deep drink. “Too bad it was Happy.”

  It would have been a nice enough sentiment if the unspoken words—not Marguerite—hadn’t hung in the air.

  “Did you like Happy?” Annie edged past a suit of armor. She looked doubtfully at the nearest seat, a concave wooden stool, and perched on its edge.

  Donna drank deeply. “I’ve been in flea markets that had better stuff. Don’t think I didn’t tell Dad, but he just laughed and said Marguerite liked crap. That thing you’re sitting on—it’s English, supposed to look Egyptian. That was all the rage after the exhibition of tomb stuff in London in 1862. There was a time you couldn’t turn around in a Victorian drawing room without looking at a sphinx head or a winged orb or a lotus capital. And this chair”—she leaned her head back against the upholstery—“was hot stuff, too. They called it the Elizabethan style, but actually this kind of chair was built during the Restoration. Marguerite wouldn’t know a good piece if she fell over it. If I had the money she’s spent on this house…” Her words were softly slurred. Apparently this wasn’t Donna’s first drink of the day.