Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  “Claude shamed us.” Marguerite spoke with a childlike wonder. “He said there were limits.” She pressed her hands against her cheeks, swayed. “I don’t know what to do, where to turn. Alice, Alice!”

  Alice took her arm, guided her toward the steps. “You must rest now, Marguerite.” In a flurry, the two women were gone.

  Swanson’s eyes glittered. The man was furious. Without a word, he strode off the stage and slammed through the door.

  “That was Dad’s voice.” Terry’s red cheeks looked pasty.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Wayne growled.

  Donna tossed her head. “I don’t pretend to know what the hell this was all about, but it didn’t look to me like swami was a happy man when he departed.” She stepped to the center of the circle of chairs, bent down, blew out the candle.

  Joan smoothed her wispy hair. “A swami is a learned man, not a spiritualist.” But her eyes were still rounded. “I don’t care what anyone says, that was Claude.”

  “It might have been Dad’s voice,” Donna said sharply, “but that doesn’t mean he is lurking in this damned room like a ghost.”

  Annie slipped past them and out the door, glad to escape the bickering voices. The Ladson family seemed in agreement that they had heard their father’s voice. Certainly Marguerite was convinced. And distraught. Annie didn’t envy Alice the task of calming Marguerite.

  The minute Annie reached the third floor, Rachel’s door opened. “Annie, I saw Marguerite and Alice go down. And that man. What happened?”

  Rachel closed the door behind Annie and popped onto the red-and-black sofa with its geometric designs. She tucked her candy-striped nightdress beneath her knees and looked at Annie, eyes huge in a pallid face. Annie sank down beside her, grateful for the cheerful room and the scent of hot chocolate. No sweet smell of gardenia.

  Annie took a deep breath. “It was silly. And awful. All at the same time. A big candle. Everybody sat in a circle and held hands. Nothing happened until a voice spoke, and everyone said it sounded like Claude.” She spread her hands. “That’s all. Marguerite got upset and left. Swanson was mad. I don’t think he had anything to do with the voice.”

  A small hand clutched Annie’s arm. “No one talked about Mom?”

  Annie shook her head. “No.”

  Rachel’s taut body relaxed. She held tight to Annie’s hand. “I’m glad.” Her voice reminded Annie of a distant wind, high and thin. “Mom’s safe with God now. I want them to leave her alone.”

  She leaned forward and Annie held her tight.

  The twin bed felt strange, cold and unfriendly. Annie reached out, but Max wasn’t there. She turned restlessly and came fully awake. She listened to the strange creaks of the unfamiliar house, watched the pale swath of moonlight spearing through the window. She was tempted to use her cell phone, call and hear Max’s dear, familiar, sustaining voice. But what could she tell him? The séance was weird. So what else was new? Claude Ladson’s voice had—somehow—been heard. Somebody made it happen—ventriloquism?—and Annie didn’t believe Swanson was responsible. As for Swanson, he’d obviously not been happy to be at the Dumaney house, but, equally obviously, when Marguerite called he came. When he left, he’d looked grim. He had to be concerned whether Marguerite would take Claude’s pronouncement as instructions to desist in her efforts to contact him. If Marguerite reached that conclusion, Swanson would look even grimmer. That, of course, had to be the hope of the person who staged Claude’s vocal performance. But Swanson would surely be in touch with Marguerite tomorrow. Annie was sure Swanson would convince Marguerite that Claude indeed was there and concerned with her welfare, that Claude opposed the violence that had occurred, that he was seeking vengeance for Happy. Or something on that order. Swanson wanted Marguerite’s fortune and he was a clever man.

  Was he also frightened?

  Annie threw back her covers, paced to the window. Swanson was stymied, worried, irritated and uneasy. But not frightened. Yet, if their instinct was right, if Swanson and Kate Rutledge were married, if that’s what Happy Laurance knew, then Max’s approaches to Kate should have scared the hell out of both of them.

  Footsteps sounded overhead.

  Annie looked up at the ceiling and listened.

  A light step, another.

  Annie pulled on her robe, slipped into her slippers. She opened the door to the hall and listened. Had the person upstairs gone into the theater? Or into the memorabilia room? Annie darted to the dresser, opened her purse, pulled out her cell phone. It wasn’t a weapon, but it was the next best thing. Moreover, she had no intention of being observed. She simply wanted to see who was on the fourth floor. Perhaps someone had an idea, a middle-of-the-night inspiration, about where Happy might have hidden her papers. Or how Claude Ladson’s voice had sounded in the stuffy theater.

  Wall sconces provided dim lighting in the hall and on the stairs. Clicking on the cell phone, Annie stepped into the hall, moved swiftly and lightly toward the stairs. She eased slowly up the steps, phone in hand. The fourth-floor landing was quiet. The doors to both the theater and the museum were closed. Annie tiptoed to the theater, turned the knob. She inched open the door to darkness, smelled gardenia. She closed the door quietly, moved across the floor, turned the next handle.

  She squinted against the thin line of light, her nose wrinkling at the musky smell of cigarette smoke. She stood frozen, clinging to the hard, solid doorknob, evidence of a real world, despite the sound of the voice, that light, ironic, ebullient voice:

  “…want you to do your best, Donna. Remember that you have to give love to get—”

  The voice cut off in midsentence.

  Annie edged open the door.

  Donna Farrell rested in an oversize green chair behind a massive desk. Her head drooped. She stared at the silent tape recorder. Tears brimmed in her eyes, spilled down surgically sleek cheeks. Sans makeup, her pointed features were fox-sharp and pitifully sad. She looked small in the padded leather chair, a chair meant for a big man. She pulled at the ribbons on the front of her rose negligee.

  Annie pushed the door wide. “I heard noise up here.”

  Donna’s somber gaze touched Annie, moved back to the recorder. “I woke up and thought about it. That was Dad’s voice in the theater.” She lifted a ringless hand, wiped away tears. “He was always too busy to write.” Aching blue eyes swung to another portrait of Claude Ladson. “But you know what, he cared about us. He really did. He sent cassettes when we were at camp or in school, even after we got married.” She pointed at the recorder. “After Dad died, Wayne and Marguerite put together the museum. Wayne asked Terry and me to send the cassettes from Dad. So”—she spread her hand—“I came up and looked. Here’s the ghost.” She punched the button.

  “…love. Marriage can be the—”

  Her hand darted again to the recorder.

  “Did Swanson know about the tapes?” Annie looked at the walnut cabinet behind the desk. The second drawer was pulled out, revealing rows of small tapes.

  Donna smoothed her face with both hands. Her sharp features were composed. There was no trace of the tears except for the redness of her eyes. “Oh sure. I suspect he’s been through everything in here.” Her hand waved around the huge room. “The better to provide Marguerite with tidbits from the Beyond.” Her face twisted. “How can Marguerite be such a fool?” Then, surprisingly, her face softened. “Poor Marguerite. It would have been so easy to hate her. She broke Mother’s heart, killed her. But Mother should have been tougher. Can you imagine letting the loss of a man ruin your life?” Donna’s tone was utterly puzzled. “I always had to admire Marguerite. By God, she was willing to do whatever in the world she had to do to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was Dad.” Donna sighed, pushed back the huge chair, rose. “I envy Marguerite. I can’t imagine caring that much about anyone.”

  Annie recalled the words that had hung in the big room: you have to give love to get… Claude Ladson saw the lack in his daughter, but his
words so many years ago could not open a closed heart. No, Donna didn’t understand passion or love or heartbreak or despair. But her tears mourned her lack.

  Donna bent across the desk, popped open the recorder, picked up the tape. She replaced it in the cabinet, closed the drawer.

  Annie gestured toward the theater next door. “Who did it, do you think?”

  “Oh hell, that’s pretty obvious. I wouldn’t put anything past Swanson, but he wouldn’t choose that tape. No, my clever big brother probably found that little phrase in a tape to Terry. Terry was always in hot water with Dad: girls, drugs, money, you name it.” Her thin lips curved in a cold smile. “Of course, Wayne may clever himself into deep shit with Marguerite. But I don’t intend to tell her. And why should you? You’re not in Swanson’s camp, are you?”

  Back in the guest bedroom, Annie turned off the cell phone, dropped it in her purse. She yawned and started toward the twin bed. She didn’t know what to do, if anything. No, she wasn’t in Swanson’s camp. She wasn’t in anybody’s camp except Pudge and Rachel’s. Did Annie owe any responsibility to Marguerite Dumaney? Marguerite was a driven, lonely, vulnerable woman whose foolish quest to communicate with the dead had resulted in death. That was a fair enough judgment, wasn’t it? Wasn’t Happy’s murder a direct result of Marguerite’s threat to divert her fortune from its rightful heirs? Happy was determined to prevent Swanson from getting the money and so she died. That couldn’t be clearer. She had papers she’d intended to show to Swanson.

  If Rachel was telling the truth…

  Annie shivered. They had only Rachel’s word for the papers. Was Rachel clever enough to have created a motive for her mother’s murder?

  The papers. If only they could find the papers. Annie reached the bed, sank thankfully onto it. She was tired, so tired. Tomorrow she’d talk to Max. The thought curved her lips in a smile. She sank onto the bed, turned off the bedside lamp. What an awful, long, frightening day. She stared into the darkness and saw the odd glow at the windows overlooking the garden. She lay stiffly for just an instant, her eyes wide. She was throwing back the comforter when a siren wailed.

  Twenty-five

  FLAMES SPIKED AGAINST the velvet black of the sky, shooting up in yellow and red bursts. A muffled boom signaled the explosion of a gasoline tin. Helmeted men in heavy yellow fire gear maneuvered thick hoses. One hose wetted down the garage roof, another sprayed the side of the house, a third arched into the fire. Water hissed, turned to steam. The smell of dank smoke mixed with the stench of gasoline. Despite the swirling sparks, Wayne and Terry each ducked into a parked car, drove them into the garden, since the drive was blocked by fire trucks, then ran back to move the other cars. Annie was glad she’d left her Volvo in front of the house.

  The firemen had no need to order the occupants of the house to stay back. They’d arrived on the terrace in ones and twos, everyone there by the time the fire trucks arrived, summoned by a next-door neighbor. No one showed any interest in getting nearer to the blaze engulfing the toolshed. Wayne and Terry, both breathing hard, crunched up the oyster-shell path to the terrace to join the silent band. Another muffled boom and one wall of the toolshed sagged in, disappearing in a flare of flame.

  The terrace lights shone down upon the watchers. Everyone was in a state of disarray. For once, Marguerite Dumaney was not the star. She was simply one more bedraggled figure in the crowd on the upper terrace, her hair hidden beneath a green silk cap and her jade dressing gown misbuttoned. Alice wore an orange cardigan over her navy wool gown. Wayne crossed his arms over his bare chest and shivered. Faded jeans hung low on his hips. A wisp of Spanish moss clung to Terry’s tartan plaid pajama top. Donna’s rose negligee peeped from beneath a cream silk raincoat. Joan might have been poised for a swift walk in her green sweatshirt and sweatpants, the athletic picture marred only by pink hair rollers. An oversize white turtleneck hung almost as long as Rachel’s nightshirt.

  Marguerite clung to Alice. “I don’t understand.” Her voice was low and thin without its customary husky richness. “Who did this?” In the sharp glare from the spotlights on the terrace, her haggard face was bereft of beauty, her eyes bright with fear. “Tonight Claude said no. And now this….”

  Alice snapped, “Don’t be a fool, Rita. Can’t you smell the gasoline? Someone set the shed on fire.”

  “Why?” Marguerite’s voice rose.

  Donna stalked to the end of the terrace, her silk raincoat swishing, and stopped beside Wayne. “No point in looking for the papers out here, was there?”

  “Papers in a toolshed?” Wayne’s growl was a combination of defensiveness and derision. “Where any gardener could find them? That would be stupid.”

  Joan joined them. “Happy was stupid. And she was not only stupid, she must have given the murderer an idea where she put the papers.”

  Rachel bolted across the terrace. “Don’t you say that! Mom wasn’t stupid. Who are you to talk about my mom?”

  “Papers?” Marguerite flung up her head. Her voice was once again piercing. “What papers?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Mom said—”

  Alice broke in, loud and definite. “Happy told Rachel she had some important papers hidden. We wondered if that might have something to do with her murder. We’ve been looking for the papers.”

  Marguerite tossed her head. “That’s silly. Happy was just dramatizing herself. What kind of important papers could she have?”

  “If there were any papers in that shed, we’ll never know about them,” Terry drawled.

  The fire was damping down now, just a glow of embers marking the location of the shed. The firemen began reeling in their hoses.

  Wayne shivered. “Standing out here isn’t going to help us find out who or what started that fire. I, for one, am going back to bed.” He turned and strode toward the back door. The others, after a moment’s pause, followed. Terry watched them go, then turned to the path leading down to the dock.

  Rachel clung to Annie’s arm. “The fire proves that Mom had some papers, doesn’t it?”

  Annie’s eyes smarted from smoke and fatigue. “I guess so.” She wasn’t certain of anything, though there had to be a reason that the shed was set on fire. An accidental blaze seemed unlikely and Annie, too, had smelled gasoline. But, if the murderer knew the papers were in the shed, why set it on fire? Why not simply search it?

  Annie and Rachel were the last ones in the terrace room. Alice waited. “I’ll lock up,” she said wearily. The whirling lights from the fire truck cast alternating bands of black and red in the room. “Perhaps I’d better stay until the firemen are finished. They may wish to speak—”

  A muffled scream rose, then broke off.

  Alice’s head jerked up. “My God, that’s Marguerite!” She bolted toward the reception area.

  Annie and Rachel were close behind Alice when she reached the bottom of the stairs to the second floor. From above came the sound of voices. Joan was clattering down the steps, her eyes wild, her mouth working. “I’ve got to call the police.”

  Wayne shouted down the stairs after her. “Wait, Joan. Let’s stick together.” He thudded down after her. Over his shoulder, he called, “Terry, you and Donna stay with Marguerite. Don’t touch anything.”

  Alice grabbed Wayne’s arm. “What’s happened? Where’s Marguerite?”

  “She’s all right. Scared as hell. Somebody’s been in the house. The door to Happy’s room is open and everything’s thrown around. We need to call the cops. You better come with us. We’ll have to search the house.” He caught up with his ex-wife, took her arm.

  Joan shot him a look of surprise. For an unguarded moment, her heart was in her eyes. Wayne stopped short, slid his arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay.” His voice was gentle, without its usual veneer of disdain.

  Alice hurried up the stairs.

  Annie squeezed Rachel’s hand. “Go on down with Wayne and Joan. I’ll see what’s happened.” Rachel should not
look again into that blood-spattered room.

  Rachel clung to Annie. “Mom’s door open—Annie, what if Swanson set the shed on fire and waited until we all came out? Then he could get into the house and look for those papers, couldn’t he?”

  Oh yes, certainly Dr. Emory Swanson could have done that.

  Yes, if the fire was set to make it possible to search Happy’s room for her papers, obviously the only person who would benefit by finding those papers was Emory Swanson.

  “Oh, Annie.” Rachel’s voice trembled. “This will prove he’s guilty.”

  Annie wished that were so. She wished she didn’t have a cold and harrowing sense that the fire and search were part of a malignant design that began with Happy’s death and was far from complete.

  Even though her night’s sleep had been broken and disjointed, Annie woke early. She heard the faraway slam of a car door. The windows were gray with the first light of day. She threw back the covers and walked on bare feet across the cold floor to the near window. She looked across the garden to the burned-out shed and the stocky figure standing there with folded arms. Annie dressed quickly, grateful for her lamb’s-wool sweater and wool slacks. She checked on Rachel and was glad to see her deep in sleep, only a few dark curls peeking out from beneath a comforter.

  Downstairs, Annie found breakfast set out buffet-style on the bar in the terrace room. No one else was in the room. Annie poured two steaming mugs of coffee and carried them with her. She unlocked the back door and stepped out into a chilly morning. The sun was just up and the thin rays sliced like layers of gold through the mist rising from the water and the garden, gilded the tops of the live oaks and magnolias, glistened on the moist roof of the summerhouse, threw a deep shadow from the maze.