Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie decided circumspection was unnecessary. “Did you talk to Happy about Marguerite’s plans to give the money to Dr. Swanson?”

  Donna sipped her drink, held the whiskey in her mouth for a long moment, gently swallowed. “I talked to Wayne. God, he’s mad. If they’d found Marguerite with a stake through her heart, I could point to the man. That’s what’s so damned odd. Happy! Nobody would kill Happy.”

  It was like trying to make molasses take shape. Annie said urgently, “What did Happy say?”

  Donna tossed down the rest of her drink. “Say? She didn’t say anything. She went around bleating.” Donna squeezed her face in concentration, then said, her voice high and breathless, “‘Donna, I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do!’” The sharp-featured blonde’s nose wrinkled in disdain, and she spoke in her own acid tone. “That’s what she said Wednesday night after Marguerite made her marvelous announcement about her thrilling commitment to the world beyond, which translated to, screw the Ladsons. A grown woman with about as much backbone as a stuffed doll. I told Happy that if she could do anything, for God’s sake, do it or we were all going to be broke on our ass. Including her, I might add. Happy was a sweetie, but she wasn’t above cadging from big sis. She was quiet for a minute, then she said she’d do what she had to do. I wasn’t holding my breath. You have to remember that Happy was the world’s biggest ostrich. But”—there was an odd look in her eyes—“she’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Did you see Happy Thursday night?”

  Donna flowed up from the chair and back to the bar. She mixed another drink, shook her head. “Not after dinner. But”—she sniffed her drink—“she and Wayne had a big confab in the garden Thursday. I was taking a walk around the grounds before lunch”—her voice was grand, then slid back to its derisive tone—“since there’s not a bloody thing else to do around here. God, what a boring place. When Dad was alive, trust me, it was never boring. Have you ever seen any of his movies? We’ve got them all up in the shrine on the fourth floor. Movies, posters, newsreels—if it had to do with Dad, it’s there.” She lifted the glass, downed a third of her drink. “I have to hand it to the old bitch, she was nuts about him. And she still puts on quite a show. I didn’t like the message, but the birthday bash was star quality. And that was a pretty nifty performance this morning. But back to Happy. She and Wayne never even noticed me walk past.” She sounded faintly aggrieved. “I guess the last time I actually said anything to her was at dinner last night. She was awfully quiet. I asked her if she felt okay. She patted my arm and said that everything was going to be all right, that I shouldn’t worry. She had a kind of Joan of Arc look. You know, brave and noble. I told her I never worry.” Donna stared down into the amber liquid, the bleakness of her face belying her words. “She disappeared right after dinner. I don’t know where she went. I got a book out of the library. God, some bestseller circa 1954. I took it up to my room and stayed there. I’d had enough of the family to last me until next Christmas. In fact, if I didn’t have to kiss ass for some money, I’d get out of here right now.” She blinked. “If the cops would let me.”

  Annie looked at her petulant, unhappy face. “Did you hear anything around midnight?”

  “Midnight?” Nothing flickered in her eyes. “Last night? No, it was as quiet as a tomb. I was slumbering in my bed. Alone. Another drawback to this boring house.” She finished off her drink. “God, another whole week until Christmas.”

  Max studied the computer sheets with a long list of real estate transactions.

  Duane looked as satisfied as Agatha with a mouthful of shrimp. “You’ll note the dates?”

  Max did. The first sheet listed houses sold the second week of January three years ago. The second sheet listed houses sold six months later.

  Duane leaned back in his swivel chair. “In January three years ago, one Kate Rutledge—”

  Max felt a quickening of interest. Kate Rutledge, the woman at Laurel’s, the smiling, slim woman to whom he had taken such an immediate dislike.

  “—came to the island, bought a house. The real estate agent was Heather Crane. Six months later, Emory Swanson came to the island, bought a house. The real estate agent was Heather Crane.”

  “I see that.” Max’s tone was unimpressed.

  Duane’s eyes glittered. “Do you know Heather?”

  Max did. Heather Crane sold houses the way some people climb the Himalaya: carefully, with enormous effort, perseverance, and total dedication. She was on the far side of fifty, but slim as a thirty-year-old. She lunched on diet drinks, played championship tennis and knew everybody in town.

  “Heather takes one holiday a year. She goes to Bermuda and stays at a different luxury hotel each time. She was at the Southampton Princess this past September. She saw Emory Swanson and Kate Rutledge dining together, obviously a couple. The next day Heather ran into Swanson on Front Street and asked about Kate. Swanson looked blank, said he didn’t know a Kate Rutledge. Heather looked equally blank and said she saw them at dinner the night before. Swanson said that he had dined with a woman who lived on the island, that he was in Bermuda by himself on business. Crane said that it was certainly a remarkable resemblance. Swanson smiled and said he would look forward to meeting Miss—uh—Rutledge when he returned to the island.” Duane gave a satisfied chortle. “Heather got home and pulled up her records. Kate Rutledge paid for the house with a check drawn on a bank in Seattle. Swanson also moved to the island from Seattle. He bought a house. His check was from the same bank. Heather mentioned it to her secretary, who told her hairdresser, who…but you get the picture. Ingrid picked it up from a friend at church.”

  Max hadn’t expected to be presented with a smoking gun. This tenuous connection between Swanson and another recent arrival on the island seemed innocuous in the extreme. So perhaps Swanson and Rutledge knew each other. So they kept it a secret. So maybe they had a tryst in Bermuda. So?

  Annie poked her head in the library.

  Terry sprawled on a sofa, arms folded. He gave Annie a sly look and struggled upright. “Come on in. You joining the paper chase?”

  “I’m looking for Wayne.” The library was a long and lovely room with pale orange and deep rust silk draperies at the twelve-foot windows. Mission oak walls gleamed with the richness of sunlit honey. Father Christmas, a pack over his shoulder, stood in the center of the long table.

  “I can suggest a better alternative.” He grinned and patted the cushion beside him, then gestured at the life-size painting of a tiger above the limestone mantel. “Come enjoy looking at Rajah. That’s what Dad called him. I think he believed the big cat was his soul mate.”

  Annie knew that Terry’s objective wasn’t to share an intimate moment admiring the oil painting. His objective was to share an intimate moment. She grinned and stayed in the archway. “Your dad must have been quite a guy.” It was interesting how all of his children found Claude Ladson’s imprint wherever they looked.

  Terry flipped a salute at the tiger. “That he was. Now”—he patted the cushion again—“if you want to know more about Claude, I’m the man to tell you. Wayne’s a boring dude, you know.”

  Annie laughed aloud. Terry definitely was of the always-give-it-a-try school of male hopefulness. “Another time. I understand Happy and Wayne had a talk before lunch yesterday.”

  Terry yawned. “Yeah, I saw Happy hurry after him. I went the hell in the other direction. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to her moan about whatever it was that was bugging her.” He glanced around the library. “Hidden papers.” He heaved a disgusted sigh. “If you believe that, I’ve got a nifty beachfront house in Utah that I’ll sell cheap…oh, only a million or so.”

  Annie said softly, “But Happy’s dead.”

  The derisive look faded. He blinked. “Yeah. There’s that. But I have to tell you”—his voice was suddenly serious—“nobody was crossways with Happy except Rachel.”

  Annie’s retort was sharp. “Happy was very upset over Margu
erite’s plans to give money to Swanson.”

  “Sure she was.” Terry’s glance was shrewd. “But all of us were mad and none of us could do a damn thing about it. I don’t believe in some magic bundle of papers that was going to save the day.” His red face softened. “I’m sorry.”

  There was kindness in his voice and in his eyes. He didn’t believe in the papers. He believed Rachel was guilty. He rubbed his nose, glanced away. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, Wayne’s nosing around upstairs.”

  As Annie hurried up the stairs, she tried to dismiss the look in Terry’s eyes. She wouldn’t give up on Rachel. Not yet. Not as long as there was any hope of her innocence. So far, they had only Rachel’s word for the papers, and those papers were the only link to Emory Swanson. They had no proof, no proof at all. But Happy had talked to Wayne. What did she tell him?

  Twenty-two

  MAX WAS ALMOST to the door when the telephone rang. He turned, hurried to the kitchen and scooped up the cordless. Maybe it was Annie…“Oh hi, Ma. Thanks for calling me back. Listen.” He pulled out a kitchen chair. “Tell me about this Kate Rutledge. What do you know about her? How did you meet her? Is she thick with Emory Swanson?”

  There was a considering pause. “She’s been active with the Friends—”

  Sometimes Max wondered if every woman on the island belonged to the Friends of the Library.

  “—and we worked together on the garden committee. She’s quite knowledgeable about azaleas. She’s not one of those women who say much about themselves. I know very little about her even though she is extremely active in island organizations. It was only after Miss Dora asked for my help that I became aware of a curious fact.”

  Max picked up on the nuance in his mother’s voice. Maybe, just maybe…“What, Ma?”

  “Kate Rutledge cultivates women who have suffered a death in the family in recent years.”

  “But—” Max broke off. Sure, he knew how that could be done. Back issues of the local news carried obituaries. Deaths of the prominent (which could also translate to the well-heeled) would also be reported in the news columns.

  “I didn’t make that connection until I decided to lay a little groundwork for my effort to contact the Swanson group. At various gatherings, I told people that I was simply beside myself with the need to communicate with Buddy. It won’t surprise you that the word was soon out all over town. It was then”—Laurel’s voice was triumphant—“that dear Kate in a most cautious manner began to sound me out. After I’d confessed to a desperate need to contact Buddy, Kate told me a very touching story”—Laurel’s husky voice was dry—“of how she had been able to contact her late husband. Of course, I pounced on that and begged her to tell me who could help me. She told me it had been her great good fortune to learn from others here on the island about Dr. Emory Swanson, who had permitted her to attend some of his seminars on the Golden Path.”

  “She learned from others?” Max was puzzled.

  Laurel’s throaty chuckle rolled over the line. “Dear Max. Of course that’s what she said. But as soon as I was able to attend some of the gatherings, I made it a point to visit later with others I saw there. In every case—and I was so tactful, Max, you would have been proud—”

  Max did not question his mother’s ability to disguise the point of any conversation in which she engaged. It was, to be truthful, very difficult ever to ascertain Laurel’s objective, either in speech or action. Annie had gone so far as to insist that Laurel’s thought patterns resembled the records of an earthquake on a seismograph.

  “—of my obfuscation. I did so well!”

  Max thought Laurel’s simple pride was charming. He smiled.

  “In any event, I discovered that all the other women had been led to Swanson by Kate Rutledge. I think that’s significant, don’t you?”

  “I see.” Max understood. Kate Rutledge was the shill. If true, it could be considered reprehensible. But was a relationship between Kate Rutledge and Emory Swanson reason enough for murder? “Okay, Ma. Thanks.”

  She heard the disappointment in his voice. “Max, I’m sure Swanson and Kate are working together.”

  “I agree. But I don’t see Swanson murdering Happy Laurance to keep that relationship secret. He and Rutledge could brazen it out, insist she was simply so convinced of Swanson’s great gifts she was eager to help others. Who could prove otherwise? Most of the women who go to the foundation are probably so impressed by him, they’d jump to his defense. Including Marguerite Dumaney.”

  Laurel always knew how to have the last word. She trilled, “You of little faith. Dear Maxwell. Evil will out. Well, if not evil, then surely chicanery. Tell Annie I’m counting on her. I’ll meet her at the gate to the Evermore Foundation tomorrow at two o’clock.”

  “But Ma—” Max listened to the buzz of the empty line.

  Annie stood at the landing on the second floor. The hallways were empty. She hadn’t expected to find Wayne Ladson here. He had made the point that Happy’s papers were surely not hidden in someone else’s room, so it was unlikely that he would be in any of the bedrooms. Terry thought his brother was upstairs. That left the third and fourth floors. She looked toward Marguerite’s suite and wondered if Rachel was still there with her aunt and Father Cooley and Alice. There was an easy way to find out. Rachel hadn’t come downstairs. Annie wouldn’t have missed her. Annie hurried to the third floor, tried Rachel’s door. It opened to quiet. “Rachel?” No answer.

  It took only a moment more to check the unoccupied guest rooms. Annie had the third floor to herself. She looked speculatively at the stairs. The small theater and the rooms devoted to Claude Ladson’s memorabilia—or the shrine, as his daughter described it—were on the fourth floor. Annie couldn’t imagine why Happy would choose either as a hiding place. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Wayne Ladson must be up there somewhere.

  She made no effort to step softly, but her climb up the carpeted treads was noiseless. She stood undecided on the landing. The doors to both the theater and the room next to it were closed. She took a step toward the theater, not really wanting to enter the stale-aired room with its oppressive ornate decoration and heavy velvet curtains and faint scent of candles.

  The museum door opened. Wayne stepped out. He wasn’t looking toward her. His gaze was fastened on the door to the theater. His eyes glistened and his lips were drawn back in a wolfish grin. Annie thought he would have made a perfect illustration for Mr. Hyde stealing out of Dr. Jekyll’s house for a night of evil.

  She drew her breath in sharply.

  His head jerked toward her. His eyes flared. With an effort, he managed a normal smile and looked once again like a slightly untidy professor. “Hello there. You startled me.”

  “Sorry.” She took a step back.

  He closed the door to the museum. “I have to hand it to Donna. Maybe there isn’t a way to search this house. If Happy stuck her papers in there”—he pointed toward the door—“we’ll never find them.”

  His tone was so normal and reasonable, Annie managed to speak in a reasonably easy tone herself. “You haven’t found anything?”

  “No luck.” He tugged at his beard, frowned. “I’m afraid there may not be anything to find. Happy…well, there’s no telling what she was talking about. Or what she might have thought important. But I guess we should check out the theater.”

  He opened the door to the theater, turned on the lights.

  Annie stood in the doorway, picked up the scent of candles—gardenia—and felt a wash of revulsion. The dark red velvet curtains reminded her forcibly of the dried blood in Happy’s room.

  Wayne took two strides, stood on the steps to the small stage. He reached behind the curtains, pulled. Slowly they parted. “Don’t see how anything could be attached to the curtains.” Nonetheless, he shook the heavy material, peered up at the exposed steel girders. “I don’t picture Happy lugging a ladder up here. She’d have to bring it all the way from the garages. And it would take a ladder to hide anyt
hing up there.” He gazed at the small auditorium. Moving swiftly, he flipped up the seats, checking to see if anything had been taped beneath. He finished, turned to her, lifted his hands. “Nothing here.”

  Annie was glad to get out into the hall. As Wayne closed the door, she said, “Did Happy tell you about the papers?” He shook his head as they started downstairs.

  “I thought Happy talked with you before lunch.” The conversation between Wayne and Happy had apparently been intense enough to capture Donna’s attention.

  “Lunch…” he said vaguely. “Oh, that. She just wanted to know how to do some research and do it fast. I told her about the Internet. I wasn’t about ready to take her over to school and show her. I told her to try the library.”

  They were almost to the ground floor. “What kind of research?”

  “She didn’t exactly say. Murmured something about public records. I told her most of the states don’t have all their records on-line, but if it was a birth, death, divorce, marriage, the local newspaper probably carried it. If she knew the approximate date, she could check the newspapers for that week and print it out.”

  Public records. “Did she mention a state?”

  They stopped at the base of the stairs. Terry spotted them from the library and pushed up from the sofa. “Rachel’s hunting for you, Annie.”

  Wayne looked at his brother. “I see you were getting a little rest. How hard did you search?”