Sugarplum Dead (13 page)

A
NNIE PUT DOWN
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer place mats, a jaunty Rudolph bounding over a chimney top. She began to hum.

Max opened the oven door and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon and fresh baking.

Annie smiled as he placed a Christmas-wreath plate in front of her. White icing oozed over the cinnamon roll. “Mmm, thank you,” she said appreciatively. Annie picked up the morning paper and smiled at a photo from the North Pole. As she ate and read, she felt the familiar Christmas happiness, a compound of eagerness and panic, so much to look forward to, so little time to get everything done. Not only did she need to get her packages off to Max's sisters and their families, she was only halfway done with the rest of her list and now she needed to make some additions. What would suit for a newfound father and sister?

She looked over the top of the paper. “Max, maybe I could start with a stocking. The Spice Girls?” She looked at him doubtfully.

Max looked blank for a moment, then nodded. “Rachel? Oh, that's probably old hat by now. Why don't you ask Mike?”

“Max, you are brilliant!”

Max basked in her admiration.

Annie looked at him with a sudden surge of love. How wonderful to know that even a light compliment meant so
much to him. But no more than his words always meant to her. She gave him a huge smile, knowing he would smile in return. He did.

“What could I get Pudge?” She put the paper down.

“How about a sweater?” Max looked suddenly eager. “Do you suppose he plays golf?”

Annie didn't know, but now the lack of knowledge didn't hurt. She and Max would be learning lots about her father. Somehow she was confident that Pudge did play golf and that he and Max would be golfing buddies. Of course Pudge played golf. What other answer could there be on a perfect morning with golden sunlight spilling into their kitchen?

Annie loved the glistening expanse of windows, windows everywhere, letting in the light. On a cloudless day the house shimmered with light, shining through windows and spilling down from skylights. But even on a cloudy day, the house made her happy because it reflected their love. That's what Pudge had felt last night. It was what she hoped he would always feel when he came to see them.

Annie felt afloat in happiness. Everything was going to be fine for all of them and this Christmas would be one they would never forget.

The phone rang.

Annie glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty on Friday morning ranked a little early for a social call. As Annie reached for the phone, she checked the caller ID:
The Island Gazette.
She frowned. “Hello?”

“Annie, Vince Ellis here.” Vince was an old friend as well as owner and editor of
The Island Gazette.

Annie knew him well, and the tone of his voice, concerned and carefully controlled, made her neck prickle. “Vince, what's wrong?”

“Maybe nothing,” he said swiftly. “Thought I'd check. Is the Patrick Laurance staying at Dumaney house your father?”

Obviously Vince had heard that Annie's father was visiting the island. That Vince knew about her father's arrival came as no surprise. Vince always knew what was going on around the island. But he wouldn't call unless something was wrong. She stood quite still and stiff. “Yes.”

“I picked up a call on the police scanner. There's been a murder there. A woman.” Vince cleared his throat. “The police have rounded up everybody staying at the house. Apparently your father is missing. The police want to talk to him.”

“An APB? Is that what you mean, Vince?” This was no time for Vince to try and soften his words. If the police had sent out an all-points-bulletin for Pudge, they must believe Pudge was somehow involved in the death. Or had something happened to him? “He's missing?” She was startled by a rush of panic.

“Hold on, Annie. He's probably out for a walk, something like that.” Vince must have heard the fear in her voice. “There's no suggestion that anything's happened to him.”

A murder at the Dumaney house and Pudge gone. Annie clutched the phone. The police couldn't be looking for Pudge. Not the tired-faced, genial man with her eyes and hair, not the man who had looked admiringly around her house and called it a happy place. But she felt sheathed in ice as she remembered his parting words about Marguerite, “…that woman's so damn poisonous, it's a miracle nobody's murdered her!”

“I'm sorry, Annie.” Vince's voice was gentle. “Look, I'll see what I can find out. I don't know a damn thing more, who got killed or where or why the APB. I'll find
out.” Vince started his career covering murders in Miami. He knew how to dig. “I'll get back to you.”

The minute Vince hung up, Annie called the Dumaney house. A busy signal rasped in her ear.

 

As the speedboat crested the swells in the sound, Annie shaded her eyes against the sun. She wanted to urge Max to go faster, but the boat was spanking against the water. Going by water was Max's idea and she'd approved at once. If Vince's information was accurate, if there had indeed been a murder at the Dumaney house, the drive would be barricaded, visitors barred. The chances of being let through were slim to none. Annie didn't think being the missing guest's daughter would get them past a police barricade. The missing guest! If the word hadn't come from Vince, a man she knew and trusted, she would have hooted at the idea. Even so, there must have been a huge mistake, a terrible misunderstanding, if the police truly were seeking Pudge. Pudge might not have liked Marguerite Dumaney, but he had no reason to kill her. He was just a guest. The police needed to look at Marguerite's family. They'd find plenty of suspects there. Annie wouldn't mind telling them so. Fine spray misted her face and hair, dampened her navy cardigan and gray slacks.

Annie pointed across the murky green water. “Look, there's the tower.” The gay red bunting wrapped around the shiny aluminum tower made the Dumaney house easy to spot.

Max slowed the boat as they neared the estuary. Vegetation-choked hummocks poked up from the water. Max edged into a channel leading to the inlet. The small islands screened the shore. As the boat headed for the deeper channel, Annie craned to see. Through an open
space, she spotted the Dumaney dock. Although too far away to be sure, she was afraid she recognized a tall, sturdy figure standing at the end of the dock. “We may have a welcoming committee. I think it's Billy.” Billy Cameron was a good friend, but he was also a sergeant in the island's small police force. Annie tried different approaches in her mind:
Billy, I've got to see my sister,
or maybe,
Billy, what the heck does it mean that there's a pick up order out for my dad?

Or would it be better to pretend they'd taken a spin (on a Friday morning when the store would be brimming with Christmas orders?) and dropped by to see Rachel, then insist upon staying—after all, they were family—when informed there had been a death? That's when families draw together. Nobody could dispute that Annie and Rachel were stepsisters.

Rachel. Annie felt a sudden breathlessness. What if Rachel or Mike had attacked Marguerite? They were certainly angry enough and so young that violent emotion could destroy judgment. “Max—”

“Shh.”

Startled, she jerked her head toward him.

“Back there,” Max murmured. He put the boat in reverse. They were in shallow water here, winding past the hummocks toward the estuary. Cattails and spartina quivered in the onshore breeze. Black ducks flapped into flight as the boat neared. A white ibis on a near hummock stood elegantly on a live oak limb. They passed so near, Annie could see the brilliant red of the ibis's bill and legs and the snowy white plumage.

Max watched over his shoulder, cautiously ran the boat in reverse. There was not enough room to turn in the narrow waterway. The boat slid quietly through the water, the sound of the motor a low murmur. They were in a
world hemmed in by hummocks. A smell of rotting vegetation overlaid the scent of brackish water. The boat backed across a narrow channel between two hummocks. Max idled the engine and they looked into a dim corridor of dull water bounded by thick, tangled vegetation.

A rowboat was wedged at the narrowest point. Pudge Laurance, the muscles in his shoulders bunched, shoved hard against a hummock with an oar. At the sound of the motor, his head jerked toward them. He didn't speak for a moment. Finally, his voice oddly colorless, he said, “Guess I got myself in a mess. I'm stuck.”

Annie looked in vain for the genial man she'd talked to last night. This sweaty, pale-faced stranger wasn't the man who had asked her to give him a chance to be her father.

“Pudge, what's happened? What are you doing here?” Did he know about the murder? Did he know the police sought him?

Pudge's eyes slid away from hers. “I forgot to check the depth. Pretty dumb. I thought I saw a marsh hawk and I poled in here. I poled too far.”

Annie was her mother's daughter, direct and unequivocal. “The police are after you.” She wished he would look at her, but he stared stubbornly at the green, rippling water.

“The police?” The muscles of his face tightened. Now he looked up, but he didn't see Annie. His eyes were wide, staring, speculative, shocked.

But not surprised.

Annie waited for the question that didn't come. He didn't ask why the police wanted him. Annie felt a swirling emptiness. He didn't ask.

“Pudge, hold on.” Max's voice was calm. “We'll get you out. I'll back the boat in and you can climb aboard.” Max eased forward, then back, and the boat inched nearer
to Pudge. There was a rock and shudder as he climbed aboard.

Annie waited for him to speak. But Pudge slumped in the back of the motorboat, grimly silent.

Annie twisted in her seat. She felt the muscles in her face go slack. Her heart thudded.

Pudge's eyes followed her gaze, dropping to the front of his khaki slacks and the dark smear of blood on his left pants leg. As she watched, he shook his head back and forth, misery in his eyes. He stared at the stain, then fumbled in his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Leaning over the side of the boat, he brought the wet cloth up and swabbed the stain.

Annie could have told him. Blood is hard to wash away.

Pudge scrubbed. Finally, kneeling by the rail, he spread the handkerchief, scooped up water, splashed it on his pants.

The boat headed for the dock. Over the roar of the motor and the rush of the wind, Annie cried, “What happened? That was blood, wasn't it?”

Pudge made no answer. Instead, he looked past Annie at the dock and the waiting policeman. Pudge took a deep breath and folded his arms across his chest, his face intent, absorbed, thoughtful, a man thinking as hard and fast as he could.

As Max nosed the boat against the pilings, next to a sleek red and white motorboat, the island police chief, Pete Garrett, strode briskly to meet them. The young police chief had taken the place of Annie and Max's longtime friend, Chief Saulter, when Saulter retired. Pete Garrett's round choirboy face, topped by slicked-down blond hair, was earnest, determined and pugnacious. They'd gotten to know him the past summer during the
investigation into the murder of a Women's Club volunteer. Garrett dropped into the bookstore occasionally, but he was an acquaintance, not a friend. Right this minute, his eyes gave them an intent, measuring stare before they settled on Pudge.

Annie grabbed the ladder and climbed to the dock. The ladder creaked as Pudge followed. Whatever had happened, she didn't believe her father was a man who could hurt anyone. She felt that deep inside as surely as she'd ever felt anything in her life. She didn't know why he had run away—and it did look so much like flight—but Pudge wasn't stupid. Why would he row a boat into a shallow channel between hummocks? Certainly, if he was trying to get to the mainland, he would have rowed across the Sound. More importantly, he might have despised Marguerite Dumaney, but he had no motive to kill her. These thoughts swirled in her mind as she stepped in front of the police chief. “Pete, there's been some mistake.” She tried to sound calm. “I understand there is a call out for my father.”

Pudge came up beside her. “It's all right, Annie. I'll take care of this. Officer, I'm Patrick Laurance.”

Max came up on the other side of Pudge. “Hello, Pete. What's going on here?”

Annie was acutely aware not only of her father and Max and Pete Garrett, but of the dock and the gardens, of the huge house and the quiet figures who became ever more distinct in her consciousness. Shock, fear and hostility emanated from watchful faces.

The weathered wooden dock stretched about twenty feet. It seemed uncommonly crowded, Annie and Max and Pudge, Chief Garrett and big, brawny, sweet-faced Billy Cameron. Her uneasiness deepened when Billy avoided looking at her. Billy and his wife, Mavis, had
been their friends for a long time. Billy's sober look was proof enough that Vince Ellis's report was accurate. Yes, the police were looking for Pudge.

She glanced at her father, seeking some reassurance that this moment was wrong, that there had been a mistake. Pudge looked calm, but, standing so near him, she could feel his tension. Her eyes dropped to his tightly clenched hands. Perhaps he sensed her gaze. Slowly, his hands relaxed, hung at his side, but his face was taut, his eyes wary, his mouth a tight line.

Max appeared unruffled, totally at ease, his face grave but pleasant. Annie wished she had his capacity for exuding confidence, but not even the improved status of women in today's society had equipped her with a White-Male-Now-In-Charge-No-Matter-What persona.

In the bright sunlight, Chief Garrett's blond hair glistened. His khaki uniform was starched and fresh. His carefully blank face revealed nothing of his thoughts, but his eyes were sharp and suspicious. He studied Pudge intently, from his lined, tense face to his sweaty shirt to the slacks with the irregular wet splotch on the left leg. “Hello, Mr. Laurance. I'm Pete Garrett of the Broward's Rock police.” A formal nod. “Annie, Max.”