Sugarplum Dead (12 page)

The gesture gave Annie an odd sensation, for that gesture was her own. How many times a day did she trail her fingers through her hair? She looked toward Max. He nodded and smiled.

“Anyway, there Rachel was, hell-bent to row to the
mainland. She would never have made it. She promised not to run away if I would stay. So I carried my damn suitcase upstairs and unpacked it.” His smile was lopsided. “Of course, Happy may have thrown my stuff out on the drive before I get back. But I can't walk out on Rachel.”

He met Annie's searching gaze squarely, slowly nodded. “I'm a slow learner, Annie. I've been a damn fool more than once in my life. But I've learned something in the last twenty-five years.”

Annie looked toward the crackling flames. She clasped her hands tightly together.

Pudge reached out, tentatively touched her clasped hands. “I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to understand. I'm not going to make excuses. I'm just asking for a chance to prove that I can be your father.”

The fire shifted, brilliant sparks whirling upward. Annie watched the fiery bits blossom and fade. His words were as bright as the sparks. Were they as transitory? She looked toward Max, at familiar eyes brimming with love and encouragement. Once, and it now seemed impossible it was true, she had left New York without telling him where she was going. She came to the island to escape his intentions, no matter how honorable. She'd been convinced they were too different ever to marry. Max was rich. She was poor. Max dabbled in fun endeavors, everything from diving for pearls to directing off-Broadway one-acts. She believed in work, the harder the better. Max was determined to enjoy life, avoiding pomposity, earnestness and any semblance of seriousness. She liked to have fun, but she never lost sight of her responsibilities. A feeling as cold as a blast of air from a polar ice cap swept over Annie. What if Max hadn't followed her to
Broward's Rock? What if she didn't have Max? What if she hadn't taken a chance?

Across the years, she heard her mother's voice. Her mother had two short comments, depending upon Annie's situation of the moment: So far, so good; and nothing ventured, nothing gained. Odd to re-create her mother's dry tone at this moment in this company. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. That's what she'd said when Annie debated entering an essay contest (she won a trip to Six Flags), writing a letter to Jane Goodall (a handwritten reply), trying out for the lead in the junior play (she got it), applying for a scholarship to Southern Methodist University (all tuition paid). And she didn't regret the ventures that failed (she didn't make the basketball team, she lost the race for class president, she was rejected by Wellesley).

It was very quiet. The crackling of the fire was the only sound in the spacious, cheerful room. Annie gazed at the dear, familiar furnishings chosen by her and Max, green wicker furniture with striped fabric, a peeling-paint green washtub holding firewood, Low Country landscapes on three walls, her collection of miniature cats. All this and so much more, so much more, because she had taken a chance, had listened to her heart instead of her reason.

Now she must choose, heart or reason.

Her eyes rested finally on her father. She looked into weary gray eyes. What did he remember of her mother? He must have loved her once. Annie had adored her mother, a brisk, unsentimental, clever, interesting, prickly, kind woman. He would have stories of her, must have stories of her. They could talk together and her mother's spirit would be there, bright and funny and fiercely independent.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. But that didn't
mean Annie had any intention of succumbing to charm. She would listen. Listening committed her to nothing. She would also remember her mother's familiar judgment: So far, so good, and she would be wary. Her face was grave. She spoke softly. “Okay. I never say never.” That wasn't her mother's aphorism. It was her own. But sure, attitudes run in families. Someday she would tell a daughter or a son: Never say never.

“Hey.” Max bounded to his feet. “That's a toast. Never say never.” They were all on their feet, their wineglasses pinging.

It was only red wine, but Annie felt like she was drinking champagne.

The giddy sense of exhilaration stayed with her when they reached the table. As they ate, Annie loved the way the glow from the fire highlighted Pudge's face. As Max served, Annie looked solemnly across the table. “I want to know everything,” she said simply.

Pudge tugged at his mustache. “Fifty years in a flash.” But he tried. “We were orphans and lived with my mother's sister in Gainesville. I worked odd jobs for spending money, sacking groceries, throwing papers. But I always snuck away to fish whenever I could. My sister still lives in Dallas. I called her to tell her I'd found you. She sends her love.”

Annie could feel love: love from Max, love from this man who was speaking so quietly. Not even champagne can match the feeling of love.

“…and I graduated from TCU—”

“A Frog!” she exclaimed.

They both laughed at Max's bewilderment.

“A graduate of Texas Christian University,” Pudge explained. “I didn't know what I wanted to do. I liked selling and talking to people and traveling. Anyway, I ended
up with a degree in business and a ROTC commission. That meant I went into the Army right after graduation. I told you how I met your mom. We didn't have time for a big wedding. I was being shipped out to Vietnam, so we had a small wedding. You were born while I was there. When I got back, we lived in Dallas.” He pushed the food around on his plate, his face bleak in the ruddy glow from the fire. “I tried a bunch of things. But…I'd been a second lieutenant in the infantry. I came back from an ugly war to a world that hated the war. Nobody wanted to hear war stories from Vietnam vets. I tried a lot of things that first year back. I tried selling insurance. I was a property appraiser. I took our money and borrowed some and went halves on a restaurant. We were ahead of our times. It was a theme place, Jungle Louie's. My sister painted a safari mural. We had Chinese food and Vietnamese. One day my partner skipped town after emptying the bank account. I'd trusted him. Judy'd always said he was a flake. She was right. Then an old Army buddy called and he wanted me to come out to San Diego and we'd have a charter boat taking tourists out to look at the whales. God, it sounded like fun. I hadn't had any fun in a long time and I hated being in one place all the time. But…”

Judy wouldn't go with him. He went.

“Your mom stayed in Dallas. I went. I kept thinking she'd come and bring you. But she never did. One day I called and the phone was turned off. I wrote. The letters came back.” He didn't look toward Annie. He stared into the fire. He lifted his shoulders. “And from there…I guess I've been everywhere, done a little of everything. But that's enough about me.” He looked at her as if she were spangled with stardust. “I want to know about you.”

What Annie didn't tell, Max did. When Max described
his mother's efforts to help plan their wedding, he and Pudge laughed so hard they almost choked.

“…harmonic convergence…” Pudge repeated.

“…cosmic revelation…and a gold whale's tooth…” Max doubled over with laughter.

Annie smiled. Sort of. Though she had to admit that Laurel's influence had helped create a wedding that was still discussed in tones of awe on the island, recollections ranging from the Burmese love dance to the T-bones from Texas. Annie continued to insist that the rosy glow of the wedding dress resulted from sunlight through stained-glass windows. But finally, Pudge stopped laughing and said in a kind of wonder, “Your wedding. I wish I'd been here, Annie.”

“I do, too,” she said slowly. But his wishes and hers didn't matter. Yesterday never changes. Maybe she could change her feeling about the past. Maybe. But for this moment, she'd thought as much about the past as she could bear. When they moved to the den for their after-dinner coffee, Annie stirred in an extra teaspoon of sugar and directed the conversation to the present. “Do you think you can persuade Rachel to talk to her mother?”

Pudge trailed his hand through his sandy hair. “Oh, Lord, I hope. I don't know what's gotten into Happy. She's always been bubbly and fun. When she called and asked me to come, she wouldn't tell me what was upsetting her. She just kept saying that things were awful and wouldn't I please come. Frankly, I would have said no except she was here on the island. I thought I'd try Ambrose one more time.”

How many times had he looked for Annie and her mother? But maybe that was a question better left
unasked. What mattered was that he had come to the island and he had come in search of Annie.

Annie pushed away the thought that maybe the timing was convenient and the island a nice place to visit and it was one more destination for a man with restless feet. Instead, she said quickly, “What do you think now that you've looked everyone over? Do you think Happy is upset because her sister's involved with Dr. Swanson?”

Pudge rubbed his nose and frowned. “I can't figure out what's wrong. Oh sure, they're all upset about Swanson, and that includes Happy. But it's something more and I can't get her to ante, not a word. She just paces the room whenever we're alone and tells me she doesn't know what to do. Just before Happy got all upset about Rachel and the boy, she told me she was afraid of what Marguerite was going to do. Obviously, she knew about Marguerite's plans to fund that foundation.”

Annie could pull from her bookstore shelves a dozen mysteries with variations on an old theme: Who gets the money? “Money can definitely cause problems, including murder. Christie knew that.” Annie rattled off the first titles that came to mind. “
The A.B.C. Murders. Dumb Witness. Sad Cypress. After the Funeral.
And that's just Christie. There are lots more books about who inherits. Georgette Heyer. Patricia Wentworth. Mary Roberts Rinehart. Marguerite better be careful.”

Pudge leaned back in his chair. “Oh, they're mad, but I can't see any of them bashing in her head. Happy's gotten herself so upset she can't think. I keep feeling there's something deeper behind it, not just this flap with Swanson. But they're all upset. Wayne isn't nearly as dreamy as usual. I noticed his eyes were pretty sharp when he stared at Swanson at that dinner. As for Terry, he looks like his favorite horse broke a leg. Donna badgers Wayne
to do something. Joan bleats about how unfair it is to take away the children's inheritance. Alice is a cool customer. She doesn't give anything away. She kind of fades into the woodwork. She's trying to smooth things over, keeps telling everyone to be patient, that Marguerite has fancies but she always gets over them. And, of course, Happy's a basket case. The trouble with Happy is that she's so damn determined to be happy! God, that's one of the things that drove me crazy and”—he shrugged—“helped me decide to move on.”

Annie felt a faint chill. Yes, this was a man who always moved on. The sweet coffee lost its savor.

“Today I told Happy a few home truths. I told her she needed to get a grip and she had to get off Rachel's back. That's when Happy lost it. She started crying and moaning about her responsibilities, that no one else had to make the terrible kind of decisions she was making, but she had to do the right thing, no matter how hard it was, and I simply didn't understand and I'd never understood her or loved her and she just hated me and wished she'd never called me.” Pudge's face reddened. “Hell, I know when I'm not wanted. I slammed upstairs and packed. I was ready to leave when I looked out the window and saw Rachel by the dock. There was something about the way she was moving, that I knew she was running away. I stopped that, but when I get back tonight, I may have to have it out with Happy. Dammit, she's got to understand about Rachel.” He sighed, looked around the cheerful room with its bright prints and comfortable wicker furniture and bookcases and occasional mementos: wooden animals from a visit to Kenya, a framed letter written by Agatha Christie, Max's tennis and golf trophies, watercolors from past contests at Death on Demand, Annie's collection of Oaxacan woodcarvings. “Nice,” he said
softly. “Nice. Being here is a great break from Marguerite's hellhole. You know, that woman's so damn poisonous, it's a miracle nobody's murdered her!”

A
NNIE PLACED THE
silver in the dishwasher. “Thanks for having him come, Max.”

Dorothy L. finished her bowl of finely chopped steak, settled back and began to clean her face.

Max scrubbed the broiler. Over the hiss of hot water, he said firmly, “He'll be back. And he had a good time. He needed it. I don't envy him, going back to that house.”

Annie reached for the glistening grill and buffed it with the dish towel. On one level she admired Pudge for his determination to stick by Rachel. On another she resented his allegiance to a stepdaughter when he had never stuck by his own daughter. “It isn't fair.” She spoke aloud.

“What?” Max looked up from spraying the sink.

Annie dropped the pan into the oven drawer. “I'm not being fair. I'm glad he wants to help Rachel.”

Max draped the dishcloth over the sink divider. He reached out and pulled her close, warm and safe in the circle of his arms. “I have good feelings about Pudge, Annie. And about us. And about the future. Everything's going to be okay.” He laughed. “And whenever we start to feel like we've got troubles, we can think about Pudge's ex-wife and her poisonous sister.”

“Speaking of troubles…” Annie glanced toward the clock. Five minutes to midnight. She admired her mother-in-law's gift for the dramatic entrance. Laurel could likely have arrived at eleven, but no, there was a
cachet about the stroke of midnight and Laurel was not one to miss her opportunities.

Max nodded. “I'll make some decaf.”

Annie cut several squares of raspberry brownies. As she finished, there was a light knock on the French door to the terrace. The knob turned and Laurel stepped inside. Her dark cloak swirled. She flung back the hood. Her smooth golden hair hung in soft curls, framing her finely boned face. Her dark blue eyes darted a quick glance behind her. She pulled the door shut. “I do not believe I was followed.” She handed her cloak to Max, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “My dear, you were magnificent.” She sped to Annie and gave her a swift embrace. “I'm sure Maxwell told you how he and I staged a really most affecting quarrel this afternoon. It was simply superb the way he played up to my lead. Kate Rutledge heard it all. I'm sure word has traveled over the island.” She beamed at Annie, dropped into a chair and reached for a brownie.

“Probably all the way to the cemetery. I suspect Go-Dog is quite concerned.” Annie picked up a brownie, too. It wouldn't be fair to say she was mad at Laurel, but Annie didn't relish the fact that Laurel had made a spectacle of herself and worried Annie to pieces. Annie had intended to be cool, not to indicate by so much as the quiver of an eyelash that she personally had feared for her mother-in-law's sanity. Instead, she blurted, “Dammit, Laurel, what are you up to?”

Laurel daintily finished her brownie. “I believe they call it entrapment in some circles.” She waved her hand. “Whatever.”

Max brought a steaming mug to his mother, another to Annie. He sat beside Annie on the peppermint-striped sofa. Dorothy L. immediately trotted across the back of the couch and jumped to his lap. “Okay, Ma. You've got
everyone on the island talking about your trips to the cemetery. Now, what's the deal about Swanson? And who's Kate Rutledge?”

Laurel nodded in satisfaction. “They are my link to the Golden Path. You see, my visits with Go-Dog were quite a success.”

Annie almost choked on the hot coffee. She stared at her mother-in-law, who apparently thrived on midnight outings, her blue eyes dancing with pleasure, her pink lips curved in sheer satisfaction.

“Laurel, you did not talk to Go-Dog.” Annie realized her tone was strident, but it had been a long day with too much raw emotion, especially the ugly scene at the Dumaney house when Happy slapped Rachel and ordered Annie to leave. It hadn't helped matters when Pudge was late to arrive and she thought that once again she'd hoped too much to see her father. And all through the day, she'd worried about Laurel.

“Annie, you are such a dear! So predictable. So earnest!” Laurel gazed at Annie in apparent admiration.

Max glanced at Annie, then said quickly, “Okay, Ma, okay. You've had fun. Everybody on the island thinks you're nuts. But we know you're not.” He avoided Annie's skeptical gaze.

“Oh”—Laurel's tone was light—“of course, I am a little crazy. That's why Miss Dora thought of me. She called, you see. A friend of hers is in the toils…” Laurel frowned, cocked her head, murmured, “Coils…snare…web? Ah yes, the web of Emory Swanson.” Just for an instant, her sparkling blue eyes were speculative and sharply intelligent. “A most unscrupulous man, I'm afraid. In any event, Miss Dora is quite concerned. Her friend is apparently signing over all of her property to Swanson because he has reunited her with her dead hus
band. Now”—Laurel's smile was gay and insouciant—“I have enough late husbands”—she looked fondly at Max—“to be quite aware that those who go before are always with us. That is not in question. But”—and her face was suddenly stern—“there is no need to clutch crystals and to sit in a darkened room with someone breathing heavily.” Distaste flickered in her eyes. “No, indeed.”

Annie looked at her blankly. Hadn't Laurel delved into ESP and the supernatural when Ingrid Jones went missing right after Annie and Max's wedding? “But you and Ophelia Baxter—”

Laurel flicked her hand, dismissing Ophelia. “Fun's fun. Besides, Ophelia genuinely believes in ESP. She means well. I do not think”—and there was an unaccustomed severity to Laurel's husky voice—“that Emory Swanson means well in the least. He is, in fact, a grasping, clever, unscrupulous man who takes advantage of vulnerable women. So, of course, I told Miss Dora I would take care of it.”

Max stroked Dorothy L. and studied his mother. “Just like that?” he inquired. “You told Miss Dora you'd take care of it? Of Swanson and the women who have fallen for his spiel?”

Laurel clapped her hands in delight. “Maxwell, you put it so succinctly. His spiel, yes, indeed, just like one of those medicine men who used to wander from town to town. People were so gullible. Not that they're any smarter today. There are all those stores with concoctions that promise to make you smarter, thinner, faster, pump you up or slow you down, drop your cholesterol, improve your sex life….” She paused, gave a tiny head shake. “Why, they promise everything. When you think of the billions those companies make, it can be no surprise that Emory Swanson, who is quite charming and attractive,
should be successful in taking advantage of lonely widows. But I shall fix his little red wagon.”

Annie ate another brownie, simply for strength. “Okay, Laurel, let me get this straight. You've put on a charade that you're desperate to contact Buddy…”

Laurel nodded brightly.

“…and you've convinced Swanson you're fair game.”

“Is that why he gave you a crystal?” Max asked.

Laurel reached in her pocket, pulled out a triangular pink prism and held it where the light reflected in a shower of brightness. “My gateway to the Beyond. I shall devote myself to it publicly with great appreciation, and I shall cultivate Kate Rutledge, who seems always to be at the center of groups extolling the greatness of Emory Swanson. I am confident that soon I will be invited to a séance at Chandler house.” She reached into her other pocket. “And here is Emory's ticket to trouble.” She held in her palm a circular plastic object about the size of an eighteenth century snuffbox or a woman's small compact. The upper face of the pale gray plastic was grilled.

“A microphone?” Max guessed. He shook his head. “It's too little.”

“A state-of-the-art tape recorder,” Laurel announced impressively, “which can run for a week. It is programed to desist recording from midnight to ten
A.M
. to conserve energy.” She bounced the small recorder on her palm. “What do you want to bet that within a week Emory Swanson in an unguarded moment will make a few statements that will shake the faith of even the truest believer?” Laurel relaxed back against the cushion. “All I have to do is get inside Chandler house. I am going to take a gift for Dr. Swanson, a photograph of myself”—was there just a bit of preening as she smoothed back a golden
curl—“in a rather ornate frame with interlocking circles of plastic. This”—she held the small round recorder between thumb and forefinger—“fits very nicely within a circle. I shall insist that he keep my picture on his desk so that I may truly feel that we are in communion and that I am striving ever nearer the Golden Path.” She dropped the recorder into her pocket. “Since I shall make it clear that I am willing to shower gold upon his efforts, I do believe that picture frame will sit on his desk as requested. And oh, what an interesting story I think we shall learn.”

Max remembered Swanson's smug confidence as he walked to his car outside Laurel's garden. Slowly, he nodded. “Of course, you have to hope there's someone in his confidence who—”

“That kind of man,” Laurel interrupted with finality, “always has an adoring woman at his beck and call. I did a little checking and I think it is quite significant that Kate Rutledge moved to the island about six months before Swanson arrived. By then she'd made herself quite familiar in island circles. She's active in all the best women's groups. She steers women toward him. Oh, quite tactfully and as if she scarcely knows him. The emphasis is always on the wonderful stories she's heard from others. I just have the tiniest little suspicion that he and Kate know each rather well. It will be such fun to hear what Emory has to say when he thinks no one else can overhear.” Laurel popped to her feet. “Now I must fly.” She pulled on her cloak, tucked her hair beneath the hood. “I didn't bring my car, of course. One can go everywhere on the bicycle paths.” She paused at the French door. “Remember, now, dear ones, We Are Estranged. Night-night.”

As the door clicked behind her, Annie grinned. “Hav
ing a hell of a good time, isn't she? A lady Bulldog Drummond?”

Max didn't grin in return. Frowning, he strode toward the French door. “Hey, I don't like this. I'll get the recorder from her. I'll get it in that house somehow. I'll find out if he has a burglar alarm”—most island homes didn't—“and I'll sneak into the house late one night and plant it in his office.”

Annie was right behind him. “Not that house, you won't.”

Max stopped with his hand on the door. “It ought to be easy. There are some big live oaks near the house. I'll bet I can get in on the second floor. Nobody's awake at two in the morning. I'll find out where his office is, scoot downstairs, plant the recorder and be out of there in five minutes.”

“No way, Max. I went by there after I talked to Edith at the library. There's a big gate now and a huge fence. When I got out of the car, two snarling Dobermans tried to take the fence down to get at me.” Annie doubted that even canine-savvy Holly Winters, Susan Conant's sleuth, would have an answer to those dogs.

Max opened the door, stepped onto the terrace. “She's gone.” He turned back to Annie. “I don't like this. If Swanson finds that microphone, he'll know who brought it.”

They stepped back into the den. As Max locked the door, Annie shrugged. “Even if he finds the recorder, what can he do? He might be furious, but you can bet he won't call the cops. He doesn't want any scandal to touch him.”

Max checked the fire, made sure the screen was in place. In the glow of the embers, his face was somber. “It's not the police I'm worried about. Swanson's about
to hit it big with Marguerite Dumaney. I don't think he'll stop at much to make sure the deal goes through. As for Kate Rutledge, I don't know if Ma's right about her being directly linked to Swanson, but the lady gives me bad vibes. Laurel may be up against more than she realizes.”