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Sugarplum Dead

Page 31

by Carolyn Hart


  Annie leaned against the kitchen counter. Yes, she was astounded. Not, as Vince expected, at the identity of the murderer, but shocked that Swanson’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon. He was not a stupid man. How in the world had he made such an egregious mistake? She felt a flood of relief. With that kind of evidence, it might not be necessary for Laurel to give her tape to the police. That tape would require some difficult explanations. As for the tape, Laurel had reported to Annie and Max that it contained several cynical comments about “idiot women who believe they have a pipeline to the afterlife” and clearly reflected an intimate connection to Kate Rutledge. But, as Laurel put it, “Unfortunately, we simply picked the recorder up too soon. If we’d left it in place, we might have a record of his conversation with Alice.” A regretful sigh.

  “Once they ID’d his prints, they traced the gun. Slick work,” Vince said admiringly. “Swanson bought the gun last year, presumably to pot at rabbits eating his spinach. His gun, his prints. Of course, by the time they picked him up, there was no trace of nitrate. He’d had plenty of time to wash his hands and, for that matter, his clothes. There’s icing on the cake: The neighbor to the south was up with a toothache and saw lights turn into that road between his house and the Dumaney place. It was about a quarter to one and he told Garrett there was no reason for any car to be going down that stretch of lane. It’s private property. He went outside to look and saw a Mercedes with a vanity plate, ‘EVERMORE.’ To clinch it, Garrett matched tire prints—that’s a dirt road—and it was definitely Swanson’s car.”

  Annie covered the mouthpiece and called out. “Max, Rachel, come here. They’ve traced the gun to Swanson.” She dropped her hand. “Have they arrested him, Vince?” She reached down and punched on the speaker phone.

  Max and Rachel skidded to a stop on either side of her.

  Vince’s voice boomed in the kitchen. “You bet. Took him into custody about an hour ago. At the Savannah airport. With a ticket to Atlanta, then on to Dallas and Mexico City. It’s a hell of a story.”

  Rachel pulled out a kitchen chair, sank into it as if her legs wouldn’t hold her.

  Annie reached out, gripped her hand.

  “So you can take a little drive in a few minutes.”

  Annie stared blankly at the speaker phone. “Drive?”

  “I hear there’s a guy who needs a lift home. Name of Pudge Laurance. Down at the—”

  “Oh, Vince.” Sheer happiness lifted her voice. “Thank you. Thank you.” Annie punched off the phone and headed for the door, Max and Rachel right behind her.

  Rachel stood next to Pudge in a corner of the terrace room. She looked small and forlorn in a navy dress with a white piqué collar. Pudge pulled at his tie and Annie guessed he rarely wore one. She reached them, carrying two filled plates. Max was behind her with their plates.

  Marguerite had decided upon a graveside service for Happy. Although the day was sunny, the shadows of the pines had been dark and somber. Mercifully, the service was swift, and the funeral cars brought them quickly back to the house. Annie would have been happy never to walk into the huge, strange house again, but Rachel had to be there.

  “Fried chicken,” Annie announced cheerfully. “I’ll bet Sookie makes wonderful fried chicken. And mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  Rachel managed a smile, though her face still looked pinched and her eyes were red with crying.

  Marguerite, all in black, swept to the center of the room. “My cherished ones.” Her deep, husky voice reached every corner.

  The jerky beginnings of conversations stopped. Everyone looked toward Marguerite. Every face appeared strained and tired. Who could wonder at that? They had been close to two violent deaths and this morning attended the funeral of a sweet woman they’d known well for many years.

  Wayne slouched against the bar, his dark brows raised. His silvery hair and trim beard were neatly brushed, his narrow face sharply attentive. He looked at Marguerite with marked skepticism, as he might observe a politician or a cabaret singer or an economist.

  Joan fluffed her wispy hair. Her dark green dress was too tight to be flattering.

  Terry had pulled off his navy blazer, loosened his rep tie. He held a plate heaped with food.

  High heels clicking, Donna swished toward a small sofa, her discontented face alert and wary.

  Marguerite waited until there was no sound. She lifted her head and she was the Marguerite Dumaney they knew well, blazing eyes, hollowed cheeks, bloodred lips—haggard, yes, but still beautiful, beautiful and mesmerizing. Her perfectly cut black suit was as glossy as a raven’s wing, the single strand of pearls at her throat emphasizing the midnight hue of the silk.

  “I must confess.” Her voice fell, deep and sad as the cry of a loon.

  Annie felt suddenly disoriented. The early morning news shows in Savannah had been dominated by the news of Swanson’s arrest. There were a half dozen film clips, including a pale and grim Swanson flanked by Chief Garrett and Officer Cameron, a suave Swanson speaking at the November meeting of the Men’s Dinner Club, the Chandler house several years earlier during a garden tour and a shot of a Doberman lunging toward the gates. A voice-over had announced: “Residents of Broward’s Rock Island were shocked this morning to learn of the arrest of Dr. Emory Swanson for a murder early Sunday morning at the home of reclusive actress Marguerite Dumaney. Shot to death in a gazebo behind the house was Miss Dumaney’s longtime companion, Alice Schiller. Swanson settled on the island two years ago, buying the Chandler house, a famous Low Country plantation long famed for its azaleas and dogwood. Swanson established a foundation which champions crystals as a link with the afterworld. Miss Dumaney is reported to have sought contact with her late husband, Claude Ladson, the movie producer. After taking up residence at Chandler house, Swanson installed gates and the grounds are patrolled by two Doberman pinschers. Swanson is to be arraigned this afternoon in Beaufort. Police have given no motive for the slaying of Miss Schiller. Her death follows the bludgeoning death Thursday night of Miss Dumaney’s sister, Happy Laurance. Police will not comment upon whether the two crimes are linked. In national news, the White House…”

  Annie had noted at the time that Marguerite, as always, got top billing.

  Marguerite lifted a hand now to touch the pearl necklace. Her eyes downcast, her head bent like a bereft swan, she spoke so softly they strained to hear. “I am responsible for Happy’s death, for Alice’s death. I must wake and sleep with that knowledge. I must forever realize in my heart”—her hand spread across her chest, her voice deepened with sadness—“that my innocence”—she slowly lifted her face, stared from one to another, her eyes soft with unshed tears—“blinded me to the snake in our midst. I trusted Emory Swanson. That foolish misstep on my part”—her hand swept out, palm upward, beseeching—“has led us to this sad day when we put to rest my beloved sister—”

  Pudge slipped his arm around Rachel’s shoulders.

  “—Dear Happy. She always sought the good of the family. She and Alice warned me. I don’t know”—a deep sigh—“how Happy threatened that evil man. We do know that she faced him and that she died for all of us, seeking to keep our family intact. Alice, too. I can only ask forgiveness. I shall never forget their sacrifice.” Her chin rose. Her soulful gaze moved from face to face.

  Annie glanced toward Rachel and was glad to see that Rachel recognized this moment as a performance crafted for its audience, vintage Marguerite, and therefore somehow reassuring, a return to normalcy that both Happy and Alice would have welcomed.

  “We shall from this moment forward”—Marguerite’s voice was vibrant—“remain forever united. Despite our grief, we shall share the good cheer of this Christmas season.”

  Instead of a vision of sugarplums dancing, Annie suspected the Ladson siblings, their eyes bright and faces wreathed with smiles, suddenly pictured a parade of dollar signs. The threat to their great expectations was ended.

  Annie looked from face to face. Swanson had almo
st gotten away with the Ladson fortune. The resolution of the crimes could not have turned out better for Wayne, who liked to putter among his books, and Terry, who could now afford to cruise wherever he liked, and Donna, who could search for ever finer antiques, and Joan, who would not have to worry about her children’s expenses. They could not help but think that all’s well that ends well.

  Annie pointed at the box of books. “Pudge, if you’ll open the carton, Rachel can shelve the books.” It worried Annie that Rachel was still so pale. The morning had been long and difficult, Happy’s coffin left beneath its mound of flowers, Marguerite’s emotionally draining oration. Annie knew shelving books didn’t follow the pattern for a funeral day, but Rachel needed distraction, and working at the store during Christmas rush would surely provide that. The store was jammed. Max and Ingrid had lines five deep at the cash desk. A book club from Savannah, mystery readers all, chattered and milled, their high soft voices flowing into the storeroom.

  “…been looking for a first of The Transcendental Murder…”

  “…absolutely adore Katherine Hall Page’s books…”

  “…Who Rides the Tiger is chilling, simply…”

  “…still think Leo Bruce’s Case for Three Detectives is the best locked-room mystery ever…”

  “…hope there’s a new book by Sister Carol Anne O’Marie. I have all…”

  Rachel stacked the books, recent titles by Barr, Crais, Scottoline and Trocheck, on a dolly and pushed the door wide. She edged around a group of women staring up at the watercolors. There might be a winner today. Annie reached out to pull the door shut. She needed to check the order list, see if she could fill some late customer requests for Christmas. Pudge lifted another box of books to the table. She slipped into the chair in front of the computer.

  The door opened. Max poked his head inside. “Annie, Pudge, we have a visitor.” There was an odd note in his voice. He held the door. “Kate Rutledge wants to talk to us.”

  Twenty-nine

  KATE RUTLEDGE WALKED into the small storeroom. Max closed the door behind her. Suddenly it was quiet. Annie and Pudge stared at the slim woman with the squarish face, perfectly waved shining brown hair, soft yellow cashmere sweater and brown wool slacks. She might have been any attractive late-thirties Christmas shopper except for the blazing anger in her eyes and the sharp lines in a face gray with shock and fatigue.

  She leaned back against the door, stared at them. “I hope you’re all satisfied now. You’ve accomplished your goal, haven’t you, getting an innocent man arrested.”

  Max gave her glare for glare. “Miss Rutledge, the evidence—”

  “Listen to me.” She pushed away from the door. “You think Emory killed Happy Laurance and Alice Schiller? That’s right, isn’t it? The two of them? That Alice Schiller pretended to be Marguerite and he killed her because she accused him of killing Happy?”

  “That’s right.” Max folded his arms.

  She whirled toward Pudge. “You were there in the house. When was your wife killed?”

  Pudge looked toward Annie.

  “Around midnight.” Annie remembered so clearly Dr. Burford’s crisp declaration.

  “Then listen to me.” Kate’s voice shook. “Emory was with me. He came to my house about ten. He didn’t leave until the next morning, just before seven. He was with me all night. All night!” Tears burned in those hot eyes. “I told the police. They won’t listen. They think I’m lying. But I’m not. Damn you to hell, he was with me.”

  Max’s dark blue eyes were skeptical. “He wasn’t with you Saturday night. He was in the gazebo. He brought a gun. The bullet from that gun killed Alice Schiller. His fingerprints are on the gun. Tracks from his car are in the lane next to the Dumaney house.”

  Kate shuddered. “He was there. But he didn’t kill her. He had no reason to kill her because he didn’t kill Happy Laurance. He told me what happened at the gazebo and he told the police. They don’t believe him. Yes, he ran away. You would have run, too. He knew they would come after him.” She swung toward Pudge. “They arrested you first. I don’t know why. You claimed you didn’t kill your wife. How would you feel if nobody believed you? How would you feel if you were still in jail, waiting to be charged with murder?”

  Annie reached out, held tight to Max’s arm. Of course, Kate Rutledge would lie for Emory Swanson. But what if she was telling the truth?

  Pudge’s genial face creased. “I’d be scared. I was scared.” His voice was low.

  Kate held out trembling hands. “The police aren’t going to help Emory. But you can help him. If you will.”

  “Why should we help him?” Max bit off the words, his disdain clear. “A man who takes advantage of those in grief. A man who stays in a town just long enough to milk money out of vulnerable women.”

  “Because someone else killed those women.” For an instant, Kate pressed her hands hard against her face. Then she looked at them, despair warring with anger. “You don’t care. You’ll let the real murderer go free.”

  Pudge stepped forward. “No. We won’t do that.” He looked at Annie, appeal in his eyes.

  Annie tangled her fingers in her hair. Didn’t Pudge see what he was doing? What if they convinced Garrett that Swanson had not killed Happy? Even if Garrett charged Swanson with Alice’s death, it would reopen the investigation into Happy’s murder and put Pudge and Rachel right back in the center of the bull’s-eye. Dammit, didn’t Pudge see that? Two murders and two murderers?

  But surely Garrett would dismiss that possibility. All along it had seemed obvious that Alice, masquerading as Marguerite, was killed because she threatened Happy’s murderer. In fact, they knew without any doubt that Alice believed Swanson guilty of Happy’s murder. Alice had told Annie there might be a way to trap Swanson. Alice engaged in a complex subterfuge that resulted in her death. How could the killer be anyone other than Swanson?

  Yet Annie felt cold inside. If Swanson didn’t kill Happy, he didn’t kill Alice. She stared at the angry, frightened woman demanding justice for Swanson. Why should they believe her? Because of her unconcealed rage? She didn’t approach them with a smooth, calculated alibi. Kate Rutledge attacked them.

  Perhaps Kate saw the uncertainty in Annie’s eyes. “I don’t know what you can do.” Her face was suddenly empty and bleak. “Maybe no one can do anything. But will you talk to Emory? Will you listen to him?”

  Chief Garrett pointed down the hall to the third door. Billy Cameron, big and imposing, dwarfed the little metal folding chair. He scrambled to his feet, nodded hello, his face impassive, his eyes warm.

  Max lifted his hand. Annie smiled. “Hi, Billy.”

  Garrett was as crisp as a new twenty, his round face smooth-shaven, his eyes bright, his khaki uniform board-starched. He looked at them curiously. “Prisoners have a right to visitors upon proper application.” Proper application had consisted of Max signing an identity sheet and stating that he and Annie were there at Swanson’s request. “You can have half an hour. Knock twice when you want out.”

  Billy unlocked the door and they walked into a small, square room with no windows, lime-green walls, a plain wooden table, green cement floor. As the door clicked shut behind them, Emory Swanson looked up. He was no longer handsome, his heavy, sharp features sullen and frightened. His manacled hands lay on the table. The too-small orange jail jump-suit pulled across his chest.

  Max’s shoes grated on the cement. He pulled out a chair for Annie, another for himself. They faced Swanson. “Kate Rutledge asked us to come.”

  Swanson lifted his hands, used his knuckles to rub against his chin and, Annie realized, to hide lips that trembled. “Yeah. Kate knows I didn’t do it. I was with her the night Marguerite’s sister was killed.” He didn’t bluster. He spoke in a weary, hopeless voice.

  Annie wished she were not in this room. Despite the newness of the jail, this room had already held within its walls emotions and secrets Annie had no desire ever to know. This afternoon a man who had exuded
confidence stared at them like a fox in a trap, a grievously wounded animal.

  Swanson shifted in his chair, as if he could find ease from the chains. The clank beneath the table indicated his ankles were chained, too. “Somebody set me up for this.”

  “You were with Kate Thursday night?” Max spoke quietly.

  “We’re married.” Swanson’s voice was dull. “She helps me. She goes to a new town first, gets established. When I get there, she’s gotten to know the women—” He broke off.

  “Credulous women?” Max’s voice was hard.

  Swanson’s head lifted. “Hell, man, they’re rich. And lonely. I make them feel better. I give them their money’s worth. They want to talk to somebody who’s died. I hold their hands and we look into a crystal and pretty soon they’re happy as can be, talking their hearts out. What harm does it do?”

  “You scam away their money.” Annie’s tone was derisive.

  Swanson shrugged. “I just take some of it…”

  Annie thought about Miss Dora’s friend who had given away everything she had.

  “…and it’s their money. Sure, some of their greedy relatives don’t like it, but a lot of them are sitting around waiting for the moneybags to die. Why should I care what happens to them?” He looked at them defiantly, a riverboat gambler caught with extra cards and contemptuous of the marks. “I’ll tell you for sure, I never hurt anybody. Never. You can check every place I’ve ever lived. I never hurt anybody. And I’m in some wills. You know that? This whole thing”—he looked down at the manacles—“is crazy. They say I killed Marguerite’s sister and somehow Alice knew it and dressed up like Marguerite and accused me and I shot her. That’s crazy.”

  Wondering if she was succumbing to Swanson’s most clever scam yet, Annie asked warily, “What happened at the gazebo?”

  Swanson flung his arms onto the table and the chains clattered. “I should have known better than to go there. The setup was nuts, even for Marguerite. But she was always difficult and I knew I had to keep on top of things with her or the whole thing would be ruined. Somebody was trying to screw things up for me. It started at the dinner when she told the parasites they weren’t going to cash in when she died. They looked like scalded cats, mad as hell, ready to bite and scratch, but not sure which way to jump. Somebody pulled that stunt with the gardenia. Marguerite was thrilled, sure the gardenia came from Claude. I had to be very careful what I said. Anyway, I thought everything was fine, but then her sister got killed. Marguerite was really upset. She was scared. She called me a half dozen times that day and insisted we try to get in touch with Happy that night. And that voice…” Swanson’s eyebrows rose. “That was strange. It must have sounded like her husband—”

 

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