Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “Bro, I am not in your classroom.” Terry yawned.

  “That’s your loss,” Wayne snapped.

  Annie persisted. “Wayne, please, exactly what did Happy say?”

  Terry folded his arms and stared at Wayne. “If Happy told you about the papers, why in the hell didn’t you say so earlier?”

  Wayne rolled his eyes. “Happy did not tell me about any papers.” His tone was studiously patient. “Yesterday she came up to me in the garden and, you know Happy, she was breathless and a little confused and very excited and she said…” He squeezed his eyes. “As closely as I can remember, she said, ‘Wayne, I need your help. You know how to look things up, don’t you?’ which was Happy’s dim understanding of what historians do. I replied, ‘What do you want to look up, Happy?’ She looked all around, like a silent film heroine searching for the evil Count Casimir, and whispered, ‘Records.’ She paused and with great effort she added, ‘Vital Statistics.’ See, that proves even Happy must have read a newspaper once.”

  Annie continued to look at him pleasantly, but she didn’t like his mocking tone. Happy had struggled with knowledge that ended with her death. She might have been foolish, but she had also been brave.

  Annie said thoughtfully, “So you explained how to use the computers at the library to look up newspaper archives?” Newspaper archives. “She didn’t say what newspaper?”

  Wayne gave a long-suffering sigh. “She didn’t say. I didn’t ask. It was not a fascinating conversational exchange.”

  Terry punched his brother on the shoulder. “And you were busy brushing her off as fast as you could. Who knows? If you weren’t such an intellectual snob, we might have a lead to her murderer.”

  Wayne glowered. “That’s a stretch.”

  Terry dropped his bantering tone. “No, look at it straight, bro. The woman claims to have the goods on the man who’s going to rip off Marguerite and, need I add, thereby impoverish me, thee and the rest of the clan. If you’d only asked her what the hell she was looking for”—Terry held up a thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“we might be that close to foiling the bastard. But we are”—he raked Wayne with a measuring gaze—“who we are. Now, if she’d asked me”—he threw back his head and laughed—“hell, I’d have given her the bum’s rush, too. So I can’t fault you. But it’s tough to know we could have had the answer—and now we never will.”

  Annie spoke without thinking. “We will.”

  The brothers looked at her in surprise.

  “We’ll figure it out. There has to be something about Swanson that Happy discovered. If she discovered it, so can we.” If only they knew what newspaper and where…

  Terry drawled, “You and Rachel are soul mates whether you’re sisters or not.”

  Annie looked around. “Where’s Rachel?”

  “Oh, she blew through here a few minutes ago, looking for you. Asked me why I wasn’t searching. I told her I’d searched. She gave me a look that would have melted a glacier and stalked off.” Terry waved his hand toward the cavernous reception hall.

  Wayne looked in the library. “Happy kept stuff in that desk, but I don’t think it would qualify as a safe place. Not even in Happy’s uncritical mind.”

  Annie clenched her hands. One more crack about Happy and she was going to ask this arrogant know-it-all a few sharp questions, starting with: If you’re so damn smart, who murdered Happy? And why? Instead, Annie kept her voice even. “Maybe it would make sense to start at the other end. Do you know if she went to the library?”

  “She may have.” Wayne tugged at his beard. “I’d guess she did. She was pretty intense. I had the feeling she was determined to get some information and get it quickly. But even if we track her to a particular computer at the library, it probably won’t be any help. All browsers contain a history file that keeps track of Web sites visited by a user, but libraries install software to automatically clear the history files every time a user quits the program, or at the least, clears it at the end of the day, to control the amount of hard disk space used. Maybe a librarian helped her and might remember.”

  “I’ll check it out.” But that wasn’t first on Annie’s list.

  Max unlocked the door to Confidential Commissions and flipped on the light, but he didn’t remove the CLOSED sign in the front window. His secretary, who had unfailing good humor and a soft touch with pastry, had left this morning on a Christmas cruise to the Caribbean. Truth to tell—and not a fact Max brought to Annie’s attention—the work level at Confidential Commissions dipped to zero when Barb was gone. But he couldn’t be expected to seek work during the Christmas season. After all, there were gifts to pursue. He was especially pleased with the authentic treasure map (tooled on worn leather) that purported to pinpoint the exact—oh, say within a meter or so—location of treasure discarded by conquistadores fleeing Tenochtitlan in 1520. Annie was going to love it. And he’d tracked down a rare signed photograph of Mary Roberts Rinehart atop a camel on a trip to Egypt. As Max closed the door, his pleasant thoughts slid away. He had a better gift in mind now: Pudge’s freedom. He would do what he had to do to make this present possible and to give Annie a Christmas she would never forget.

  In his office, Max glanced at Annie’s picture on the corner of his Italian Renaissance desk, steady gray eyes and kissable lips, short blond hair and guileless smile. He looked into the eyes of the photograph, but in his heart he saw Annie and remembered how she’d fought for him when he was a suspect in the disappearance of a beautiful young client. No matter how damaging the circumstances, her faith in him had never faltered. His Annie, stalwart, vulnerable and loyal. And he remembered another face sagging in fatigue as Garrett pounded with question after question. Yes, it was clear that Pudge hadn’t told all he knew about Happy Laurance’s death, but Max was willing to wager his world that Pudge was innocent.

  Max slipped into his chair, punched on his computer. The kitchen smelled good, the rich odor of roasting beef, the scent of cheese and greens and cinnamon. And it was spotless. Max would approve.

  The dark-haired woman at the sink whirled at the sound of the door. Dishwater dripped from her hands. She gave a tiny sigh of relief when she recognized Annie. “Rachel’s hunting for you, miss.” She pointed to a door next to the pantry. “She just went upstairs.”

  “Thank you. I’ll catch her in a minute. Sookie…” She smiled into startled eyes. “Do you mind? That’s what Rachel calls you and I can tell she likes you a lot. I’m Annie.”

  Sookie’s plump face eased into a smile. “Miss Rachel is a good girl.” Her voice was as thick and soft as honey, but her gaze was combative.

  Annie understood. She answered with a firm, “Yes, Rachel is a good girl.”

  They looked at each other with understanding.

  “Sookie, did you see Mrs. Laurance yesterday? Did you talk to her?”

  The cook reached for a dish towel, dried her hands. Her face furrowed in thought. “She was at lunch. I didn’t pay much mind, but nobody was talking. Except Miss Marguerite. She was telling a story about Mr. Claude. Miss Happy left right at the end of lunch and she came through the kitchen. She didn’t stop and tell me how much she liked her food like she usually did. She looked”—a considering pause—“determined, like a woman who’s made up her mind and set on her course. She had her purse with her and in a minute I heard her car.”

  Annie glanced toward the windows that overlooked a drive. “How did you know it was her car?”

  “Miss Happy always raced the motor, then took off with a squeal. Oh yes”—her head nodded—“I always knew when Miss Happy was on her way. That must have been close to one-thirty. She came back about three. I heard a car door slam, then she burst into the kitchen. She darted over there”—a worn hand pointed—“to the scissor drawer. She yanked it open, poked around. She picked up a roll of duct tape and dropped it into her purse.”

  Duct tape. Annie walked across the kitchen, opened the drawer. Two pairs of scissors, tacks, assorted kinds of tape, e
veryday tools including a clawhammer. But no duct tape. She looked toward Sookie. “Was she carrying anything else? A sack? Any papers?”

  “I didn’t see any. But her purse was big.” Those broad hands spread more than a foot apart. “One of those big floppy leather bags.”

  Annie would ask Garrett if they’d found Happy’s purse and whether it contained the duct tape. She walked over, looked out the window. The doors to a four-bay garage were closed. Four cars were parked in a graveled area midway between the garage and a toolshed. Annie pointed at a bright yellow sedan. “Is that her car?” Yellow was a color Happy would pick.

  Sookie nodded. She hesitated, then pointed at a row of hooks by the back door. “The third hook,” was all she said.

  “Thanks.” Annie took a step toward the back door, then changed her mind. “I’ll be down in a minute. I’m going to look for Rachel. If she comes here, ask her to wait for me.” She opened the door to the back interior stairs.

  The printer whooshed out sheets. Max waited, leaning back in his chair. Private eyes used to skulk down back alleys. Now they sat in front of computer monitors and clicked their mouses. It was hard to achieve that old-time swagger when most information came from the tap of a finger instead of the point of a gun. That hoary standby—the stranger in town—was as passé as 1920s slang. Everybody had an electronic trail now. He had taken less than an hour to put together a pretty complete dossier. He picked up the sheets:

  Emory James Swanson, 42. Born in Kansas City, Missouri. Father Herman, an insurance salesman. Mother Louise, a homemaker. Only child. Four-point-plus grade average in high school. President of senior class. Active in drama. Voted Most Likely to Knock ’Em Dead in Hollywood. BA in sociology with honor University of Missouri, 1979. MA, University of Texas, 1981; Ph.D. in sociology, University of Southern California, 1984. Associated with the Friends of Being, a New Age compound, in San Francisco after completion of doctorate. Published three books with Shining Light, a New Age press: How to Hear with Your Heart, When Those Beyond Speak Your Name and The World Beyond Can Be Yours. Established the New Vision in Nashville in 1985, Points of Light in New Orleans in 1988, the Shimmering Spirit in Laguna in 1991, the Golden Road in Seattle in 1994, Evermore Foundation on Broward’s Rock in 1997. Swanson’s income before taxes for the past ten years averaged between five hundred thousand to seven hundred thousand dollars a year. Swanson operates the centers by himself, hiring new employees in each city. Swanson regularly speaks at library and book functions. He is single. No record of ever having married. He has no close friends and apparently devotes himself entirely to his work. He spends one week of every month in Bermuda.

  Kate Eleanor Rutledge, 38. Born in Pasadena, California, second of three children. Father Jeffrey, a film editor. Mother Cara, a scriptwriter. Active in drama in high school. BFA, University of Southern California, 1983. Freelance scriptwriter, San Francisco, 1984; Nashville, 1985–87; New Orleans, 1988–90; Laguna, 1991–93; Seattle, 1994–96; Broward’s Rock, 1997 to present. Yearly income has averaged three hundred thousand dollars. In each city immediately joined women’s outreach groups and charities. Single. Travels to Bermuda every month.

  Max dropped the sheets on his desk. The correlation between the lives of Swanson and Rutledge was clear. A clever accountant could very likely expose her earnings as money siphoned from Swanson’s foundations through dummy companies. Clearly they knew one another. They ran a nice little operation, where she nosed around a city’s affluent and grieving women, whom she skillfully directed to Swanson for succor at, of course, a hefty price. Was this information worth murder?

  It might well be. Swanson was close to gaining control of Marguerite Dumaney’s fortune. The revelation that he and Kate Rutledge had moved from city to city fleecing the vulnerable might be enough to disillusion Marguerite. Maybe Swanson wasn’t willing to take that chance.

  Right now Swanson and Rutledge must feel very secure. The word would be all over the island about Pudge’s arrest and Rachel’s hockey stick. Maybe it would be interesting if the covert partners heard the snuffle of a hound at their heels. Max reached for the telephone.

  Twenty-three

  ANNIE HEARD A thump above her head as she walked in the second-floor hallway past Marguerite’s closed doors. She stopped, looked up. Another thump. She tried to picture the area and realized she had no idea what existed on the third floor on this side of the house.

  She was halfway up the main stairs to the third floor when she hesitated. She was simply assuming the noise had been made by Rachel continuing her search. But making assumptions in a house where murder had occurred might be hazardous to her health. Turning, Annie ran lightly down the steps to Rachel’s door. She knocked and, when there was no answer, opened the door. “Rachel?” The room was empty. Annie looked around, took two steps and picked up a metal softball bat.

  She clutched the bat and moved cautiously up the stairs. On the third floor, she looked down a hall that ended at a closed door. She stepped quietly to the door, turned the knob with her left hand, holding the bat in her right.

  A line of unshaded bulbs dangled from the ceiling. The huge area was unfinished and crammed with furniture, stacks of boxes, luggage and trunks. Somewhere to Annie’s right there was a thud and scraping sound.

  Annie stood in the doorway. “Rachel?”

  Rachel’s dark head popped out into the central aisle. She gestured vigorously. “Annie, come look.”

  The storage area was huge, encompassing almost half of the third floor. Annie passed a stuffed elk head, a wooden cigar-store Indian, a church pew and a breakfront.

  Rachel, her face smudged with dust, a cobweb dangling from one shoulder, crouched in front of a big leather trunk. A mass of papers and books were spread haphazardly around her. She looked up, started to speak, stopped and stared at the bat in Annie’s hand.

  “Oh.” Annie propped it against a stack of boxes. “I heard noise up here. You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”

  Rachel’s glance was just this side of patronizing. “Annie, Dr. Swanson couldn’t be here in the daytime.”

  Annie wished she was as certain as Rachel that Emory Swanson was the murderer. Instead, she had a sudden clear memory of the kindness in Terry Ladson’s voice when he observed that no one was crossways with Happy except her daughter. Annie steeled herself against that disquieting memory.

  Rachel sneezed. “It’s so dusty. That’s how I found the trunk.”

  Annie knelt beside her. “What is all this?”

  “Mom’s stuff from when she was a kid.” Rachel’s voice wobbled. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t know this was up here. I thought maybe Mom might have decided to put the papers somewhere in the attic. I came in and I almost gave up, just looking at all the stuff everywhere. Then I saw the footprints in the dust. I followed them here. It was scuffed in front of this trunk. I opened it and I saw pretty soon it all belonged to Mom, her scrapbooks and diaries and letters and school programs. I took everything out and looked to see if there were any papers about Dr. Swanson.” She heaved a tired sigh. “I didn’t find anything. Will you help me, Annie? We can look again.”

  They sorted through the pile of keepsakes, but there was no vagrant sheet of paper, no fresh envelope, no unmarked file among the yellowed papers. Rachel looked forlorn. “When I saw the footprints in the dust, I thought for sure the papers would be in here.”

  Annie stared at the scrapbooks and diaries and papers on the floor. She felt vaguely unsatisfied. Maybe Happy had indeed hidden something in the trunk and maybe she or someone else had removed it. It was unlikely they would ever know. “We’d better put everything back.”

  They worked in silence. Rachel shoved papers in haphazardly. Annie picked up a diary, one of about a dozen. The covers told the story of a girl changing and growing. Annie sorted through, found the first diary—1959—and smiled at the raised pink umbrella on the red plastic cover. The later diaries had smooth floral cloth covers. Without conscious thought, Annie, a
s befitted a bookseller, arranged them in order. She put the books in the trunk one at a time, 1959, 1960, 1962…Annie stopped, checked the remainder of the stack: 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970. She glanced at the floor, then into the trunk. “Rachel, have you seen the diary for 1961?”

  Rachel rubbed her nose. “I don’t think so.” She bent over the trunk.

  Annie rechecked the stack. Finally, after sifting through every item in the trunk, she was certain. Happy’s diary for 1961 was not there.

  Rachel came to the trunk hoping to find the papers her mother had planned to put in the safe place. She and Annie found nothing regarding Dr. Swanson. They could be sure of only one fact. A diary was missing. Had that diary been gone for years? Or had Happy—or someone else—slipped into the storage area, gone to the trunk and lifted out a young girl’s scribbles?

  Frustrated, Annie riffled through the 1962 diary. The writing was overlarge, somewhat unformed. “How old was your mom, Rachel?”

  Rachel’s hands tightened on a scrapbook. “Her birthday was July 9. She would have been 50.”

  Happy began keeping a diary when she was ten. Perhaps a little precocious but…Annie opened the 1962 diary to July 3:

  I came in second in the butterfly. Julie beat me. She has a crush on Paul. I wish Paul would talk to me. Uncle Charles was on the phone talking to that lady who lives next door. Mama almost heard him, but he changed what he was saying and pretended it was a business call. I saw him sneak out of the house last night. Daddy’s going to take me sailing tomorrow. Marguerite’s mad because Daddy won’t let her go to that premiere. Daddy said she’s too young. I’ll bet she goes anyway. Mama said it will be all right. I wish I could go to camp like Julie. She leaves tomorrow. I won’t have anyone to hang around with until…

  Annie shut the diary. The missing volume would have been when Happy was a year younger. Clearly no one would have any interest in the musings of a twelve-year-old. That volume had probably been missing for years. She and Rachel were wasting their time. Maybe Happy intended to hide her papers in the trunk and changed her mind.