Sugarplum Dead

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie wasn’t interested in the bones of their lives. She wanted the flesh. One fact was common to all four: They needed money. Wayne wanted the Dumaney house. Donna’s antique store was strapped for cash and so was she. Terry was in arrears in paying the note on his boat. Joan lived modestly, but she had high ambitions for her children.

  The need for money may have led one of them to commit two murders. Annie pushed away the niggling inconsistency that Happy’s murder was of no financial benefit to this group. It was time to narrow the focus, grab what was possible, and it was abundantly clear that someone had seized an opportunity to shoot Marguerite and that someone had to be Wayne or Donna or Terry or Joan.

  Annie stacked the folders. Max was right. There was no hint of disagreement between any of the Ladson family and Happy. Maybe that didn’t matter right now. She saw other pointers. Maybe figuring out who might kill would get her and Max started in unraveling the crimes. After all, the cast of possibilities was limited in the gazebo murder. If she focused on that crime, she had a good idea of the killer. “We need someone who’s smart, impulsive and tough. Terry’s impulsive, Donna’s tough, Joan is smart. But only Wayne is impulsive, tough and smart. Max, he’s the one.” She put the folders back on the windowsill.

  Max pushed his notebook toward her. “You keep focusing on the murder at the gazebo. It didn’t start there.”

  Annie picked up the notebook.

  MAX’S TIMETABLE

  Thursday:

  Happy talks to Wayne about researching vital statistics.

  Happy goes to the library, calls up the archives of the Reno Gazette-Journal.

  Happy returns to Dumaney house, gets duct tape from the kitchen.

  After dinner, Happy talks to Rachel in the gazebo, tells her she intends to stop Swanson from taking Marguerite’s money, that she has papers and she’s going to put them in a safe place.

  Midnight, Rachel meets Mike in the gazebo. Mike sees a light near the maze.

  Midnight, Happy is beaten to death with Rachel’s field hockey stick.

  Friday:

  Pudge discovers Happy’s body, sees the hockey stick, grabs it and runs.

  Alice finds body, Wayne calls the police, Pudge is taken into custody, hockey stick found.

  Swanson holds a séance and Claude Ladson speaks, thanks to a tape from the museum, probably courtesy of Wayne.

  That night someone sets the tool shed ablaze, apparently as a decoy. Happy’s room is searched.

  Saturday:

  Alice tells Annie she has an idea of how to trap Swanson. At some time during the day, pretending to be Marguerite, Alice calls Swanson and demands that he bring a gun late that night to the gazebo. If this is true, Swanson is innocent. If Swanson invented this reason for the gun, he is guilty and, his alibi from Kate Rutledge for Happy’s murder is fake.

  Max tries to rattle Kate Rutledge.

  Annie and Laurel visit Swanson, retrieve the tape. Laurel listens to the tape.

  Near one a.m., Annie hears a shot. Alice, dressed as Marguerite, is found dead near the gazebo.

  Sunday:

  Gun found, traced, search set in motion for Swanson. Swanson arrested in Savannah.

  Monday:

  Kate Rutledge seeks our help.

  Swanson describes shooting.

  Annie went back to the top of the timetable. Max was right. It all began with Happy’s murder. If the murders were linked (and this wasn’t Shakespeare with Enter First Murderer, et al.) and the alibis were real, Emory, Rachel, Mike, Marguerite and Alice were innocent of both crimes.

  So? Annie felt a tingle of excitement. Yes, that moved them forward because finally they could believe what these people said. Most especially and most importantly, this validated Rachel’s claim about papers that could keep the Ladson fortune from going to Swanson and it validated Rachel and Mike’s report of their meeting in the gazebo on Thursday night.

  “Max”—she tapped the first page of the timetable—“Mike thought he saw a light near the maze Thursday night.”

  Max looked at her inquiringly.

  “Don’t you see? If Swanson’s innocent, there’s no reason for a light in the garden. Anyway, the maze isn’t on the way to the house, either from the boat dock or the lane. So why the light? And why there?”

  Max shrugged. “How could Mike be sure where the light was?”

  “He works there part time as a gardener. He said the light was near the maze. He was definite about that.” Annie’s eyes glowed. “So who was in the maze? Not the murderer, whoever the murderer is. There would be no reason. But if you wanted to hide something and you didn’t want to put it in the house where it might be found…”

  They parked in the side lane and slipped quietly into the garden.

  Annie glanced toward the house, an interesting mélange of colors in the early morning sunlight, the metal tower shiny as a space saucer, the art-glass windows glittering like rubies and emeralds, the yellow stucco soothing as fresh cream. They would easily be visible from the terrace room or from the windows overlooking the garden. But why should anyone care if they entered the maze? Annie had her story ready: Rachel had asked them to drop by and look for a book she’d left in the maze.

  At the opening of the maze, Max squinted at the six-foot-tall glossy-leaved walls of boxwood. “Happy could have pushed something in the center of a hedge wall anywhere and there’s no way we’ll ever find it.”

  Annie moved eagerly ahead. “Duct tape, Max. Happy got duct tape from the kitchen. Come on.” She wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like the rank, sour smell of boxwood. They walked forward, hesitated at an opening, took a left turn, ran into a dead end. They came back, took a different turn, found another dead end.

  “Let’s go back,” Max suggested. “Somebody once told me that if you followed the hedge without a break, you’d get to the center.”

  After two false starts, they found their way back to the beginning. Max put his hand on the hedge and followed the wall of greenery that had no breaks. Leaves rustled beneath their feet. A crow cawed. A red-tailed hawk, its wings outstretched and still, circled above the maze, which was likely a nice hiding place for mice and rabbits. Annie shivered and walked faster. The hawk was looking down with eyesight eight times better than theirs. Suddenly the hawk zoomed down out of sight. They came around a corner into the center of the maze just as the hawk rose, a rabbit gripped in its talons. If only they could see as well to capture their quarry.

  Max looked toward the house, but it wasn’t visible from the center of the maze, the view blocked by the spreading limbs of a huge live oak. “Happy picked a good place. She could use a flashlight here and no one would see.” The hedge walls would block light from the ground, the live oak from the house.

  The open space was about twelve feet square, the gray dirt hard-packed. Two marble benches flanked a sundial.

  Max walked to the far bench, Annie to the near. Annie reached beneath her bench, gingerly ran her fingers against the smooth, cold stone. “Max!” She pulled, tugged, wrenched the taped packet loose and held it up for Max to see.

  Thirty-one

  ANNIE STARED AT a dark oblong on the wall of Pete Garrett’s office. That’s where Chief Saulter had hung his poster of the Ian Fleming portrait by Amherst Villiers that appeared as a frontispiece in the first 250 numbered and signed copies of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. One of Frank Saulter’s continuing ambitions was to own one of those copies. Since Pete Garrett had taken over as police chief, more than the decorations in the small office had changed. Frank’s office had been untidy, with books piled in the windows and files stacked against the old-fashioned wooden cabinets. A rack of pipes, still fusty even after years of disuse, had sat next to a chipped pottery tray filled with jelly beans in the summer and foil-covered chocolate kisses in the winter. Garrett’s office was as austere as a monk’s cell. An aerial map of the island filled one wall. A framed certificate behind his desk attested that Garrett had earned a degree with highest hono
rs in criminal jurisprudence. The walls were pale gray, the filing cabinets and desk gray metal. There were no photographs on the desktop, which was bare except for an in box, an out box, and a lined yellow legal pad. If an office reflects personality, this one shouted that its occupant desired order, eschewed flamboyance and prized privacy.

  Annie popped to her feet and paced toward Max, who sat in casual ease despite the hard wood of the blond oak chair. Annie stopped in front of him, riffed her hand through her hair. “What if he doesn’t tell us what was in the packet?”

  Max didn’t answer directly. His blue eyes were troubled. “We had no choice, Annie. This is a murder investigation.”

  “He’s stopped investigating.” They’d wrangled all the way to the police station. “What if he says he can’t release information about evidence?” Annie clenched her hands. She was positive that they had held in their hands, even if only fleetingly, the solution to Happy’s murder. Held, because of Max, very fleetingly. He’d whipped off his sweater to carefully wrap the duct-taped, quart-size plastic bag. Annie had glimpsed several sheets of paper. Would that be all she ever saw?

  The door opened. She scarcely glanced at Garrett’s sober face. Her eyes were on the slim manila folder in his hand.

  She surged toward him. “Chief, you’ve got to tell us what the papers said. Is it information about Swanson? Don’t you see?” Max was tugging at her hand. “These are the papers Rachel told us about and Happy hid them just before she met someone in her room. The papers have to be important.” Annie could see it all in her mind, Happy clutching papers that someone would kill for, trying to safeguard the papers, settling finally for a hiding place beneath a stone bench in the maze.

  Garrett pointed toward the other straight chair that faced his desk.

  Max tugged again and Annie sat, but she leaned forward like a greyhound poised to race.

  Garrett sat behind his desk. He placed the folder—the closed folder—precisely in the center. His round young face creased in indecision. “I appreciate your cooperation as citizens. As a matter of policy and law, an investigating officer never releases information about evidence from—”

  Annie lifted her hand. Max grabbed it and pulled it down.

  “—an ongoing investigation. However, in the process of investigating, an officer often must share information in order to gain information.” He looked at Annie. “I have here copies of the papers which you discovered this afternoon. The papers and the duct tape contain the fingerprints of the first victim. Since that victim is your stepmother, I would like to ask you to tell me the significance of this material.” He stood and held out the folder to Annie.

  Late afternoon shadows threw dark streaks across the gazebo. The onshore breeze rattled the palm fronds, kicked up little spits of gray dust. Rachel’s overlong sweater dangled to her knees. Pudge stood protectively at her side. Donna pulled up the hood of her blue silk coat, muttered, “What a nasty day.” Wayne stroked his beard and looked speculatively toward the gazebo steps, where a haggard Emory Swanson waited. Billy Cameron, one massive hand resting on his holster, stood a few feet away from Swanson. Terry rubbed his red face. His worn blue blazer was shiny in the sunlight. Joan’s eyes were watchful. As always, Marguerite was striking, her fine bones set in sorrow, her deep-set eyes dark with horror as she looked down at the ground where her longtime companion’s body had lain.

  “Officer.” Marguerite placed her red-nailed hand at her throat, the color bright against a jade green silk blouse. “Although I wish more than anyone in the world to see justice done, I find it terribly difficult to be so near the man who killed my sister and my dear Alice, the man whom I trusted with my deepest family feelings. But if this reenactment you desire can be of use against him”—she swung, one hand flung in accusation toward Swanson—“let us proceed.”

  “We believe the reenactment will make clear what occurred.” Garrett’s tone was stolid.

  Annie felt cold despite her thick wool sweater. Now it was up to her, and she wished she felt the confidence she’d shown to Garrett. Could she pierce the shell of this clever, audacious, calculating killer? They had not a single particle of physical evidence. All they had was surprise.

  Annie shook open a paper sack. “I will play the role”—and wasn’t that a perfect description—“of Alice Schiller on Saturday night. Emory, please show us what happened.”

  Swanson lifted his heavy face, gave Marguerite a defiant, angry stare. “I didn’t kill anybody. I came here because you—I thought it was you—called and said you were frightened and asked me to bring a gun. I parked over there”—he gestured toward the gate—“and I came here….” He walked up to the gazebo. “You weren’t here. I waited, and in a few minutes I heard running steps.”

  Garrett nodded sharply at Annie.

  Annie walked swiftly down the path, holding a paper sack. She hurried up to Swanson. “Oh, thank God you came. Did you bring the gun?” She held out the sack.

  Swanson reached in his pocket. He pulled out a small silver gun.

  “Ooh.” Donna took a step backward.

  Wayne’s eyes narrowed. “Just a toy.”

  Swanson dropped the gun in the sack.

  “Oh, I hear…Wait, I’ll be right back.” Annie hurried down the steps, ran up the path. She stopped near the terrace door, where Max waited. She knew it was Max, knew his oatmeal cashmere sweater, his navy slacks. But this figure wore a sack with eyeholes and slick vinyl gloves.

  He reached in the sack, took the gun and strode swiftly down the path and circled behind the gazebo.

  Annie came down the path, stopping a few feet from the steps, just where the body had lain. “Emory, I’m so glad—”

  The masked figure drew out the gun, lifted it.

  Click.

  It would have been a bust in an old-time western, the small snap from a play gun. But the sound seemed inordinately loud in the strained, frightened silence.

  Annie looked at each face in turn. “Who shot Alice?”

  Terry’s hand shook, but he pointed at Swanson. “He brought the gun.”

  “I brought the gun. She took it.” Swanson took a step forward. Billy moved, too. Swanson ignored him, staring at the members of the Ladson family. “One of you got the gun. That’s what happened. She gave it to one of you and—”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Marguerite’s voice rose imperiously. “I don’t understand this. You are saying that Alice took the gun from Emory and gave it to one of the family? Why would she do that?”

  “For protection. She wasn’t a fool. She thought Swanson was a murderer.” Annie ignored Swanson’s angry growl. “Alice’s plan was to accuse him of Happy’s murder. Her confederate would be waiting in the darkness with the gun. Alice made two mistakes. She was afraid to ask for help on her own, so she pretended to be Marguerite. No one in the family was in any position to refuse Marguerite. That was her first mistake. Her second was in the confederate she chose. She forgot that everyone in the house wanted Marguerite’s money.”

  “Oh, that’s not fair,” Terry blustered.

  “How dare you?” Donna’s voice was shrill, but her eyes slid away from Annie’s.

  Joan’s plump face congealed like stale pudding. “You’re saying that one of us killed Alice. That’s dreadful.”

  Wayne ignored them all. “Wait a minute.” His face hard and intent, he stalked up to Garrett. “The autopsy should answer some of this. Where was Alice shot?”

  Garrett was an instant long in answering. Cops like to get information, not give it. But the autopsy report would soon be released to the media. His voice was clipped. “In the chest.”

  “The distance?” Wayne’s eyes flickered from the place where she fell to the hooded figure near a thick stand of hibiscus.

  A reluctant admiration shone in Garrett’s eyes. “Approximately sixteen feet.”

  Everyone looked at Swanson. He stood only three or four feet from where Alice had fallen.

  Wayne looked past Swanson to t
he hooded figure. “You’re saying one of us took the gun from Alice, thinking she was Marguerite, and ran around the gazebo. When she spoke to Swanson, she was shot.”

  Garrett looked sharply at Wayne.

  “It was almost a perfect crime.” Annie spoke soberly. “Marguerite shot with Swanson’s gun with Swanson’s fingerprints on it and with Swanson present. There was no risk, no danger for the murderer. So if this is what happened, who is the murderer?” She pointed at each in turn as she spoke. “Terry, Donna, Joan, Wayne?”

  Donna yanked tight the belt of her silk coat. “I don’t have to listen to another word of this. I’m going back to the house.” She swung around.

  “Donna.” The husky, volatile voice was compelling.

  Slowly Donna turned and looked at Marguerite. “You can’t believe this?” Donna reached out her hands.

  Marguerite backed away.

  Donna’s hands slowly fell.

  Tears trickled from Marguerite’s eyes. “Who?” The single word was heavy with heartbreak.

  “Whom would Alice turn to?” Annie’s words dropped slowly into a pool of silence. “Not Marguerite. Marguerite believed in Swanson. Who’s left?” She looked at a circle of faces: Joan’s resentful, Terry’s defensive, Donna’s strained, Wayne’s skeptical. “Who did Alice know best? Who lived in the Dumaney house? Who served in Viet—”

  Joan bolted across the dusty ground to stand in front of Wayne like a lioness defending a cub. “No. Not Wayne. Never Wayne. And”—she spit out the words, her voice shrill—“he couldn’t have done it. I spent that night with him.”